When I'm Small
by angel-death-dealer
Summary: A collection of one shots about Jane and his lost family before they were taken away from him, mainly focusing on him and his daughter.
1. The House That Built Me

**_This is the story I was mentioning at the beginning of my first Mentalist fic - Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head - which is a collection of one shots about Jane and his wife and daughter. I love the way he occassionally flashes back to how she was learning piano and such, and I think that they should show more of Jane's daughter. This story features his daughter more than his wife, but it is mainly just the three of them. As far as I'm aware they never say what their names are in the show, so I've decided to name his wife Violet, and his daughter Claire. I hope you enjoy the first of many!_**

**The House That Built Me**

"So, what do you think?"

Claire looked at her father as if he were insane.

"Well?" he prompted enthusiastically. "What do you think of your new bedroom?"

She stared silently into the empty room for a few moments. Moving house wasn't something that five-year-old Claire was particularly pleased about. She'd been quite happy in their old house – she wasn't as concerned about size as her parents were. She had enough room in her bedroom for her toys (if you ignored the ones that she left sprawled around the rest of the house) and enough room to run around in the garden, so when Mommy and Daddy had announced that they were moving to Malibu, she'd not been a big fan. It meant she had to leave behind the picture of a bunny she had once drawn on the wall underneath her bed – but she wasn't allowed to be upset about leaving that behind because her parents didn't actually know she'd drawn it and she'd get into trouble if they knew she'd been drawing on the walls...again.

But this new room was empty. There was nothing there. No toys, no pictures, no stuffed animals, nothing at all. The walls were coloured in Boring (Daddy called it "beige" but Claire called it "Boring") so it wasn't nearly as fun as her bright pink room in the old house. Just looking at the Boring coloured walls made her miss her old room.

Patrick, however, was thrilled with the room. There was a built in closet on the far wall, meaning he didn't need to try and wrestle her wardrobe from the previous house up the stairs and through the doorway. There was a wide window with a wooden bench build along the underside – he could already see them sitting on it, looking out over the ocean and the beach behind the house. The previous owners hadn't left any curtains behind, but they'd bought Claire's pink curtains from her old bedroom to brighten the room up. He could look around the room and envision where her new princess canopy bed would fit into the corner, her pink bedside table with her pink lamp beside it. He could see where there would be space to hang her fairy lights over the small vanity table they had bought for her. She'd recently informed them that she wanted to be a professional ballerina, and all ballerinas apparently had mirrors with lights around them. He'd already planned which shade of pink the room would be – paler than the neon pink she'd had before, but still bright enough to keep her happy.

Claire, on the other hand, didn't see any of this. She saw a Boring coloured room. She saw a matching Boring coloured carpet. She saw a window without any curtains.

"It's very empty," she finally voiced.

"Well, we're going to fill it with all your things," he reminded her.

"What things?" she asked.

"Your things that were in your old bedroom. Now," he announced, walking them both further into the room and indicating to a chosen wall on their right. "How about we put your new bed over here, facing the window? Then you can wake up and see all the birds outside."

Claire looked confused. "We didn't buy a new bed, Daddy."

"Yes, we did," he nodded. "You spent an hour jumping on it in the store, do you remember?"

At this, her head titled to the other side, scrunching up her nose and letting her blonde ringlets bounce around. "Where is it then?" she asked.

"It's in the big box in the hall."

Claire skipped back into the hall, looking at the box with keen interest. "It doesn't look bed-shaped."

"That's because it's in little pieces and I'm going to put them all together," Patrick told her.

"All by yourself?"

"Yes," he nodded proudly.

"Can you _do_ that?" she asked in disbelief.

"Hey, monster!" he teased her. "I can make a bed!"

But Claire didn't look convinced. "Daddy, maybe you better ask Mommy for some help," she told him.

"We don't need to call Mommy," he assured her.

"But she's making a cake all by herself. She can help you make a bed."

"Daddy doesn't need any help making a bed," Patrick told her.

* * *

An hour later, Claire sat on the window seat in her new bedroom. It was slightly higher than her tiny legs, so she'd had to climb up on it and now her feet were dangling and swinging from side to side as she giggled.

"You think this is funny, don't you?" Patrick accused her.

Grinning behind Susie, her favourite doll, she nodded. "Yep, daddy."

"It's not funny," he protested.

"Yep, it is."

"No, it's not."

"Is."

"Not."

"Is."

"Not."

"Is times forever!" she shot at him suddenly.

He looked up at her, realising from the triumphant expression on his daughters face that he couldn't argue with "is times forever". Instead, he grumbled, looking back at the instructions. "It's _not_ funny."

"Daddy," Claire told him softly.

He looked up, seeing that his five-year-old was now stood at his shoulder, smiling just like her mother. She patted him on the back sympathetically. "I think we'd better call Mommy now."

He smiled at her, ruffling those blonde curls that she'd definitely inherited from him. She'd wanted pigtails that morning, but had to make do with her hair hanging over her shoulders, as her mother was busy unpacking the kitchen and currently making a cake to celebrate them moving into their new house – and daddy was good at many things, but little girls pigtails was not one of them. "I think you're right, sweetheart."

* * *

Violet Jane had taken one look at the unstructured bed on the floor and cringed. She made no attempt to hide her distain at the situation. She'd left them alone for thirty minutes, and already there was sawdust and nut bolts all over the carpet – goodness knows how.

"Patrick, what did you do?" she asked him.

"Nothing!" he defending quickly, sounding almost hurt at his wife's tone of voice. He exchanged a look with Claire, who just giggled at him again. "I just took it out of the box," he said simply.

"And he played with it, too," Claire told her mother, despite Patrick pressing his finger against his lips in an attempt to get her to stay quiet.

"You 'played with it'?" Violet questioned, turning away from the woodwork mess on the ground to face the two culprits.

"I was just trying to make the bed," he explained.

"With a hammer," Claire added.

"Claire!" he hissed, as she burst into giggles.

"Patrick!" Violet sighed.

"Yes, dear?" he said innocently.

"Claire's lunch is on the kitchen table, can you show her where it is and then you're getting back up here and learning some basic DIY skills." Violet instructed him.

And he wasn't going to argue with her.

* * *

Building the bed had been quiet easy in comparison to making up the remainder of the bedroom. The chest of drawers had been more complicated and Patrick was sure he'd never lifted anything as heavy as the mattress Claire had chosen "because it was the bounciest". He was sure children were meant to be discouraged from bouncing on beds. He knew that Violet had broken her arm doing that when she was six years old. They'd agreed between them that Claire's bedroom was the priority. They were happy to spend a night on a mattress on the floor if they had to, but Claire would never sleep unless she was in a bed – so many sleepless nights were spent with a baby Claire trying to find ways of getting her to sleep – driving around town, pacing up and down the hall...surprisingly, only her own bed did the trick.

After the furniture had been made, it was time to break out the paint. He was glad that they had chosen a paler pink than had been in the previous house. It was still girly, and he was sure that the slightest drop on his shirt would result in Violet breaking out a camera and documenting the moment before he could wipe it away (he'd thought of this, and already hidden the camera batteries). Claire had wanted to join them for the paining, so with Violet in charge of pulling her hair back and securing it with a hair scrunchie, she had been given her very own paint brush. Her clothes wouldn't be getting stained by the paint as she was wearing one of Patrick's dress down t-shirts over her denim overalls. It gathered on the ground beneath her, but it meant that Violet wouldn't spend the following day getting pink paint out of Claire's favourite socks, either.

"You okay, Pat?" Violet asked quietly, when Claire went over and pressed all the buttons on the portable radio, searching for what she called 'proper songs'. She wasn't a fan of the classics that her parents listened to.

Patrick was a little stunned at her question, but gathered himself quickly. "Of course," he smiled at her.

"You're not the only one who can tell when people are lying," she smirked at him. "You're doing your quiet-brooding-thing," she informed him.

Patrick looked over at Claire, who had decided on a radio station that wasn't filled with static and went back to painting the corner of the room by the window. The look of concentration on her face was undeniably adorable. The determination to not touch the other wall, even though it was going to be painted the same colour anyway, was something that bought to mind a more advanced imagine; concentrating on homework. In a few years, she'd be in school, and it definitely wouldn't be long until she came home with spellings and math problems to solve. He was already looking forward to sitting and helping her with them, hoping that she wouldn't feel she had to hide any grades away from them – not that she'd be getting bad grades, she was insanely intelligent for her age.

"I think we're doing a great job with her," he smiled at his wife.

Violet returned his smile, the one that their daughter inherited. "Our little girls growing up real fast now, huh?"

"Yes," he nodded. "I'm going to miss this."

"Painting her bedroom?"

"No, the innocence. I want to think she'll have this view on the world forever, but unfortunately life doesn't work that way," he mused.

"Pat, stop worrying about her getting boyfriends," she teased him – since he'd seen Claire peck a boy from school on the cheek on Valentine's Day, he'd been worried about when she'd start going on dates and it had taken her at least a week to convince him that five year olds did not go off to the movies in their boyfriends cars.

"No boy is good enough for my little girl," he said defensively. "She's going to be _mine _forever."

"You're as bad as _my _father," Violet laughed. "You've never hurt _me_, have you?"

"No," he said surely.

"See, not all guys are bad. Some are good, some won't hurt her. Some will try to, but that's how she'll tell the good ones from the bad," she said. "Besides, boyfriends are going to have to go through you. I can't see you letting _anyone _hurt your little girl," she pointed out.

"True," he nodded. "I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I let somebody hurt her."

A splash of pink hit his cheek, and he turned to his wife to see her looking incredibly incriminating with a wet paintbrush in hand. He went to touch his cheek, but drew his hand back before the paint could end up on his fingertips.

"What was that for?" he asked her.

"You're being serious," she told him. "Painting is supposed to be fun."

"So is building a bed," he teased her back, trailing a line of pink paint across her own cheek.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed it :) Please let me know what you think!


	2. We Fly Away

**We Fly Away**

"Pat, are you _sure _this is a good idea?"

Patrick looked up from the suitcase he was currently zipping closed, seeing his wife looking down at him with an anxious frown. He gave her a reassuring smile, abandoning the suitcase half-zipped with one of his shirt sleeves still poking out of it – folding laundry was neither of their strong suits – and crossed the room to her. "Violet, you've been looking forward to this for weeks," he reminded her, with a gentle kiss on while he cupped her cheek. "We _both _have."

"I know," she said, however her voice was still filled with the same doubt that had been there since the previous night.

"_But_..." he hinted. He knew her inside and out, there was no one he could read better than his wife and there was a definite 'but' that was coming. Violet didn't answer, instead shifted the baby in her arms and kissed the little girl's forehead. "Vi," he started, his hands winding around her waist.

"I don't think I can leave her, Patrick," she admitted unsurely.

Patrick gave her a sad smile and then kissed the baby she held as she had done. Claire was six months old now, growing faster every day. Already she was babbling to herself in that language that only babies understood, and the whispy blonde hair she'd had a birth was now sprung full of tight curls, no doubt a heritage of her father. She still had the amazing blue eyes that glittered when she giggled, and the walk along the beach the day before had bought a dusting of freckles across her skin.

They loved every second with their daughter, but Patrick and Violet had married in a rush before she had been born. Violet had been four months pregnant when they walked down the aisle at City Hall. Neither had been fussed about a big white wedding with family all around – her family was small, and Patrick hadn't spoken to his father for years. He'd sent a letter of congratulations when he heard about his grandchild being born, but he'd made no move to visit the little bundle of joy. Patrick knew he wouldn't. Violet had worn a beautiful white dress, simple and elegant, with her parents and her elder sister as witnesses. They were the only guests. Because of a scare with Violet and the then-unborn Claire's health, however, they'd never been on a honeymoon. So Patrick had booked one for their first anniversary, a week in Hawaii. Violet's parents would be watching Claire for a week, and were happy to do so, and so the exhausted parents were looking forward to having some time to themselves, where they could have some alone time and a decent nights sleep. However, as it got increasingly closer to the date of departure, they started to realise how hard it was to leave your child in another country.

"It's just a week," Patrick reminded her, even though it was just as hard for him to imagine a week where he couldn't see his little girl. His whole life revolved around Violet and Claire. He loved waking up to see his beautiful wife lying beside him, and then cross the room to the crib and see their daughter either sleeping peacefully or laying quietly, cooing to herself whilst her little hands played with the fingers of the other hand – she was fascinated by hands, especially ones that were larger than her own.

"We could take her with us," Violet suggested.

"Violet, we talked about this," he reminded her. "At this time of year the heat's getting to her enough here, let alone in Hawaii, it would just be cruel for her."

Violet nodded, looking at Claire again as she made a small gurgle which sounded like she was backing her father up. She was definitely a daddy's girl, but a cuddle with mommy was always on the menu. "I know," she sighed, resting her forehead against her husbands. "I'm just gonna miss her."

"So am I," he agreed, sighing lightly at the feeling of Violet's breath against his lips, and his daughter's soft breathing against his neck. "That's what happens when you spend six months straight with them...it's hard letting go." Claire made that baby sigh against him and he smiled. "I'm never going to let this little one go."

"Not just hard for me then," she smiled.

He shook his head, "not in the slightest. I hate going out of the room and leaving her behind, let alone to another country." Claire gurgled again, and Patrick gave a smile to his daughter. "Yeah, that's right, angel," he whispered to her, even though he had no idea what she was saying.

Violet smiled at him, pulling back as the telephone rang in the hall. "Here, I'll get that and you take Claire," she told him.

"Of course," he opened out his arms and accepted his baby daughter as Violet disappeared. "Do me a favour, sweetheart?" he said to Claire, once her mother was out of earshot. "Be a good girl and don't cry when we leave so that your mommy doesn't worry?"

Claire took hold of the collar of his shirt and plunged it into her gummy mouth, chewing on it happily, which Patrick took as a 'yes'.

Violet replaced the phone when she hung up. It had been her mother, checking what time they would be dropping Claire off the following morning. She'd been tempted to say 'never', but knew that a week away would do the world of good. She started on her way back upstairs to help finish the packing, but caught side of a photograph on the wall at the bottom of the stairs. It was of her and Patrick before Claire was born – not too much before, though, as Violet was heavily pregnant. It had been taken in a friend of their's garden, clearly a barbecue as Patrick was holding a kebab skewer in one hand, feeding it to Violet who was laughing.

She smiled at the memory, continuing up to the next photo and taking the stairs as she went. The next photograph had been taken shortly after Violet had delivered Claire. They were still at the hospital, sitting up in bed holding her brand new baby girl, looking down at her like she was the most precious thing in the world. She remembered Patrick taking that photo because she hadn't even realised that there was a camera in the room until she heard the click of the photograph being taken. Her hair had been messy, her face still flushed, dark circles beneath her eyes, sweat shining on her forehead, but she didn't care. It was the first picture of her and her daughter, although all that could be seen of Claire was a tiny arm reaching out of the pile of pink blankets she was encased in.

The next photograph was of Patrick standing sideways with Claire, just after they had bought her home wearing a white baby-grow. Claire was lying against her father's chest, clutching his shirt in her hand with her head lying on his shoulder facing towards the camera. Naturally, she was fast asleep. She spent twice as much time asleep in the hospital than any of the other babies, so the nurses had adored her and the other mothers had been jealous. Patrick was looking at the top of her head adoringly, one arm supporting her under her diaper and the other stroking her back. He'd jumped so easily into the role of father, not at all hesitant. Violet still wasn't sure that, given the opportunity, he'd wrestle her to the ground over who got to hold their daughter for the longest.

The next was of Violet and Claire, lying on the double bed together, both of them fast asleep. They were lying on their fronts, heads turned inwards to face each other, so symmetrical in every way that Patrick couldn't not take a photo. She might have the eyes and hair of her father, but her profile had always been her mother's. She hadn't even known that the photo had been taken until it had appeared in a frame on the wall.

Finally, she reached a photograph where Claire was actually awake. She was lying on her front, green eyes glittering with accomplishment from being able to push herself up on her forearms. Her soft brushing of pale hair was slightly longer than when she had bought her home from the hospital, starting to curl. Violet could remember that Patrick had gone down on his stomach in front of her to mimic her position when he took the photograph. Every movement he made, she tried to copy, which had kept them both amused until she had started fussing for her next feed.

The following photograph was another accomplishment for the child, the first time she had sat up on her own. She was sat up, looking around her for the fuss she knew all too well she was going to get, between Violet's opened legs. Just on the other side of the photograph you could make out Violet's excited face at her daughter's feet as she held out her arms precariously, just in case she fell.

The next photograph was of Violet attempting to feed Claire solid food for one of the first times, with both of them covered in baby food where she had decided she wasn't hungry, but they were both smiling. Patrick had stood there, noticing that Claire had the same smile as her mother, only minus the teeth. Another photograph showed Patrick lying on his back, with Claire stretched out across his chest in only a diaper. Both were fast asleep, with Claire's little cheek pressed up against her fathers chest and Patrick's hand holding her steady even though he was napping.

There was also various pictures of the three that hadn't been taken by them. There were the three of them messing around in Violet's sisters pool, with Claire in an inflatable; Patrick and Violet singing together on a karaoke machine at a party; Claire sitting up beside her cousins, Michael and Peter, among the beautiful flowers in their back yard; many of Patrick or Violet cuddling either one another or their daughter. A beautiful photo stood at the end of them walking out of City Hall after their wedding, with Violet's stomach bulging gently with her pregnancy.

The last photo, at the top of the stairs, she stopped in front of. It was taken on the day of Claire's baptism, the two parents standing together on the steps outside the church. Neither of them were particularly religious, but it just seemed like right thing to do. This was just a scanned copy of the photograph, the original was safe in their bedroom in the same safe that contained Claire's birth certificate and other cherished items, like copies of her hand and footprints that even now, only six months later, reminded them how much their baby girl was already growing up.

The sound of a baby gurgling broke her out of her thoughts, and she turned to see Patrick watching her from the end of the hall, Claire sitting on his hip. The two of them were smiling at her and the baby girl clapped her hands when she was satisfied when she had won her mothers attention. Violet smiled back at them, laughing gently to herself as they approached her. "Why did I have a feeling you'd be out here?" he asked, smiling.

She laughed again, he always caught her out, but that wasn't just having the eye for details that he did – he knew her regardless. Whenever she didn't know what to do with herself she would end up looking at photographs. It had started off when they first moved in together, and Violet had come into the possession of her grandmother's old belongings, which included photographs and letters from years gone by, everything of her family's heritage that she had never been told, all cherished together in two cardboard boxes. After that, Patrick shared with her the few photographs that he had from his own youth. There were no more than a small handful, as the carnival life hadn't come with photography studios, and it wasn't a priority for them. Besides, with his memory, it was probably a clearer image in the back of his mind than it could ever be on a small piece of card. Despite the circumstances, she'd had to laugh at the longer blonde curls, and she had framed every one.

Including the one he never intended for her to see.

There had been a photo war over two particular photos – one was of Patrick sitting in a large metal tub, obviously his childhood bath, eight months old according to the untidy scrawl on the back of the picture, and the other was of Violet in the bath, thirteen months old. Both were posing proudly for the camera, not hiding their shame at all, but it didn't stop the fact that everything had been laid bare for the camera. Violet insisted that the one of Patrick be put up with the other photographs, so he had gone through all her photos until he found the one of her and pinned it up by the front door until Violet had decided to give his photograph back. It was only when he had taken it down and she had started the chase up again, that they came to the logical decision. So now, when one went into their bedroom and looked behind the door, there were three photographs. Two of these were the offending ones from the couple, and the third was in the centre, of Claire in the bath. This had been added only a few weeks ago, but looking at the pictures together it was clear to see just how much she was taking after her parents.

"I like looking at them," she smiled.

Patrick nodded, putting his arm around her and looking at the baptism photograph alongside her. All of them looked happy, even little Claire who was more than happy to have so much attention focused on her – his little girl was going to be a shining star when she was older, right in the spotlight, he could see that already. Claire leaned away from Patrick, still secure in his arms but leaning away until her pudgy hand fell on the photograph they were staring at.

"That's right, sweetheart, that's you," Violet said to the child, stroking her head softly.

Patrick looked down the line at the other photographs, memories that he couldn't help but smile at. In fact, he couldn't help but smile at every memory with his wife and daughter, as he couldn't bring to mind a bad one. Ever since they had been together, there wasn't a reason for bad memories anymore, and that had only improved with the arrival of Claire, no matter how much of a surprise (she was their surprise, not a mistake or an accident, they always insisted) she had been. Having the physical result of their love present in their lives every day, in such a beautiful little package, was indescribable.

A rumble of hunger accompanied a sudden thought for Violet, and she dipped her head to one side, smirking when her daughter copied her curiously. She was at that age now where she was mimicking everything that she saw, which was amusing when Violet was having a stressed moment and started flinging her arms around. Claire would sit there waving her arms, and it took all of Patrick's self control not to laugh at either of them. "I fancy a pizza," she decided.

"Sounds good," he agreed.

The two of them headed downstairs to arrange some take out, and spent the rest of their evening together playing with Claire, watching a movie together once she had already fallen asleep. Later, Violet stayed at the side of her crib, saying that she needed to watch her for a moment longer because she wasn't going to see her for four days. Patrick had managed to coax her into bed, only to get up and do the same himself several minutes later. It was only when they decided they were both as bad as each other and that, if they weren't careful, they were going to wake her up, that they decided to get some sleep of their own before their honeymoon began.


	3. The Object Of My Affection

**The Object Of My Affection  
**

Violet Jane sat in the hospital bed she'd been confined to, holding her tiny daughter in her arms. She wasn't used to being in hospital, having never had the misfortune of breaking a bone, needing her tonsils or appendix out, or having an accident on the sports field – and she didn't like it. Nurses were fussing around her for, in her eyes, no reason. She was going home today though, home where she could only fuss around herself when she genuinely needed to – her husband was a different matter, he'd been fussing since the day guessed about the positive pregnancy test she'd been hiding in the bathroom cabinet. They'd been in the hospital for four days now, a privilege of the private medical care that their insurance had been able to buy them. She was anxious to get home, but every time she felt compelled to get away from the hospital and back to her old life, she remembered that her old life was gone forever, and in its place was a new life where motherhood was her first and utmost responsibility.

She had to admit that she'd been feeling strange since the birth of her daughter. Even though she'd been looking forward to it immensely, she'd always imagined it to be different. The tiny girl was only four days old, and yet Violet had never felt as at a loss with herself as she did now. She found it strange to look upon this girl, the girl currently lying in her arms, and think that this was the child she had carried around for eight and a half months. They hadn't even named the baby yet, at her insistence, not her husbands, because she couldn't think of a name. Patrick had plenty of names, he'd spent the past several months sprouting off name after name, sometimes randomly in the middle of conversation asking her opinion – what did she think of Sarah for a girl? What about Patrick Junior for a boy? What about Jane for a girl, just to be funny?

Most of the time, the baby girl stared back at the entranced woman who couldn't take her eyes off of her. Occasionally, small hands would reach blindly towards her, managing to grasp a strand of the long, wavy hair that that hung close to her, but Violet didn't mind. It wasn't like the tiny hands were trying to remove the hair from her skull, it was more like an observation of it, curling it around her newborn fingers as she had done with her father's pinky finger the night before. Violet stared at her baby still, her heart and her mind in two separate places, yet they were still focused on the baby. She was so lost in thought that she didn't hear the approaching footsteps until a voice startled her.

"Good morning, beautiful's."

Violet looked up, her eyes leaving the face of the child for the first time in two hours, to see her husband walking towards her. She gave him a small smile as he headed towards her. She was glad that she had him, and that he was so enthusiastic. Parenting would have over-consumed her to the point of helplessness four days ago, had it not been for him. His ability to see every detail of his new child's life with awe had him determined to help out with changing, feeding, winding...all things that she felt she was doing wrong every time it has her turn. She knew it was wrong of her to shy away from these duties with her own child, but Patrick just seemed to enjoy them so much that she didn't want to take them away from him.

"Hi," she repeated quietly.

"How are my girls today?" he asked brightly.

"We're confused," she said simply, as she turned her attention back to the baby.

Patrick sat down beside her at the head of the bed, their shoulders tight against each other, and he stroked his daughter's head. The baby girl looked up at him and he smiled as her attention was quickly taken away by the continuous presence of her mothers hair. "Why are we confused?" he asked, his eyes turning from gleeful to concerned in less than a second.

Violet kept her eyes on the baby as before, not meeting his worry-filled eyes. "Because Baby keeps looking around to see what's causing all of the noise," she explained.

"And why is Mommy confused?" he asked.

She sighed. She knew that he knew. He always knew everything, but she knew that he also wanted her to say it herself. Sometimes it made her wonder why he still asked her questions when he already knew the answers, but then sometimes, it's nice to be asked. This was not one of those times. "Mommy's confused because she doesn't quite know what she's doing," she revealed.

"Oh, that?" Patrick smiled. "Well, I've just signed your discharge forms and we can leave whenever we're ready. I've just go to bring the car around. The baby seats already installed and I did it without dismantling anything else-"

"It's not that," she cut him off. She bit her lip, trying not to cry as she admitted what she was most ashamed of. The more she'd worried that morning, the more she realised why, and the second it had occurred to her she'd felt incredibly guilty – not nearly as guilty as she felt having to tell her husband about it, though. "I...I don't know how to be a mom, Pat."

He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but he was disappointed when it didn't seem to do any good. "We'll work things out," he told her. "I know your parents aren't as close as you'd like them to be now that we live out here, but you have me, and your friends aren't going to stop looking out for you."

"They've shown me how to change diapers and hold her properly but..." she sighed heavily, tracing the side of the baby's face. "I don't know what else to do. Marie's got that bond with her boys, and Jessica's got it with Amanda...I haven't."

"Of course you have," Patrick disagreed.

She shook her head, the tears still sitting tight in her eyes, waiting for the perfect opportunity to slip down her cheeks. "Don't say that, Pat, because I haven't."

"Vi-"

"I look at her, and I see a baby," she cut him off sadly.

"She is a baby, Violet," he said gentle, stroking the baby in questions hair and looking at her adoringly. "Our baby."

"I know," she nodded. "But I want to look at her like you do. I want to look at her and see my daughter."

With this, Patrick realised this was more than just worrying about if she was doing things right. She was worried about being a good mother. She had a great upbringing with her parents and was worried that she wouldn't be able to live up to that standard with her own daughter. "Vi, sweetheart, sometimes these bonds take time." Violet bit her lip again, the telltale sign that she wanted to cry. "A lot of people get them straight away, but Sarah didn't, remember? A lot of mothers don't."

"Sarah found her bond with Keiran because they thought he might have meningitis," she told him, turning to him finally and letting him see her unshed tears. "Pat, I don't want something like that to happen to make me realise that I love my baby," she told him.

"Hey, come here," he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders before she gave into the tears. She leaned against him, his shoulder providing a perfect resting place for her head, and the baby in her arms was no balanced between the two of them, looking up at her parents with a deep interest, almost as if she knew that she was the subject of conversation.

"What do I do, Pat?" she asked helplessly. "I want to feel like a mom."

He nodded, placing a kiss on her forehead. "You can try and do what I did to feel like a dad," he suggested.

She sighed. "I'll try anything. I just want to feel like I should do. I want to feel happy, not confused. Can't you hypnotise me or something?"

He laughed at this. "Violet, I promised you from the start I'd never do anything like that to you," he reminded her seriously. "I'm not about to break that promise now." She nodded quietly, and continued to stare at the baby. "Is this why you can't decide on a name?" he realised.

After a few seconds of consideration she nodded again. "I knew that the name would come to me as soon as I saw her, but I haven't..."

"It's okay," he assured her. "Just promise me we won't be one of those couples who wait until their child is a teenager before they're named."

Not being able to resist it, she laughed with him. "No," she agreed, "definitely not."

Patrick saw her smile fade after a few seconds, and he looked down at the beautiful child they had created. He may have promised not to hypnotise her, but he never promised not to use some light persuasion on her. "Vi, I want you to look at her." She did so, and on cue, the baby looked at her as well their eyes locking. Patrick's eyes, she noticed. "I want you to remember everything you can about when you were carrying her – how scared you were, how worried you were in case of any complications, how excited you were..."

"You helped me though," she reminded him, not taking her eyes off of the baby. "I would have panicked so much without you there."

"That doesn't mean I'm going to disappear now she's here," he assured her. "I'm not going anywhere." He kissed the side of her head again. "Right, now, do you remember the birth?"

She nodded. "It's hard to forget pain like that."

"I know, and it hurt for a long time, didn't it?" he agreed. She nodded with a sigh. She'd been in labour for almost twelve hours, much shorter than most first labours, but she'd still considered it the longest twelve hours of her life and had never felt pain like it before. "After all that pain, when she came out, and you heard her crying for the first time, what did you do?" he asked her.

"I cried too," she whispered.

"Why?"

"...I don't know."

He looked at her. "Yes, you do."

She glanced to him for a moment, then back at the baby. This was his way of helping her. He was making her realise what went through her head before she was worrying like this so that she would stop doubting herself. In all honestly, she could barely remember why she cried at that moment because it was such a swell of emotion that she couldn't do anything except let it out. "I guess...I was...happy," she realised quietly. "I was glad that she was okay and that nothing had gone wrong."

Patrick nodded. "And then, when you held her in your arms for the first time, how did it feel?"

"Really good," she smiled. "'Cause I'd wanted to hold her properly for a long time but I hadn't been able to."

Patrick smiled. "You know, over the past four days, the only time she hasn't been in your arms is when she's been in my arms, and most of that time you're getting rest," he pointed out.

"I just don't want to let her out of my sight," she shrugged. "I don't want anything bad to happen to her."

"Why not?"

"Because she's my little girl, and I love her."

The words escaped her before she had any control over them, so they both knew they'd come straight from the heart. When Violet realised what she'd said, she smiled deeply. No wonder Patrick got paid so much for what he did, he was very convincing. When she started to imagine something horrible happening to their daughter, to imagine the pain of not being able to protect her, she realised that there were worse forms of helplessness then the one she'd been feeling that morning. She couldn't help but panic so much that she thought she might die if something were ever to harm her. Now, she could look at the little girl and see her as a daughter, not just a baby.

She turned to her husband and smiled at him, her first genuine smile that day. "Thank you, Patrick."

They kissed briefly before he pulled back to look her in the eye. "The first time that you held her, right after she was born, I made a promise," he told her. "I saw how beautiful she was, and how happy you were, and I promised myself that nothing would ever take that away from us and that nothing would come between us and our little girl."

She kissed him again. "I love you."

"I love you too," he smiled back. The baby started to fuss, and Patrick started to focus his attention on her. "I love you as well, my darling girl."

Violet watched as he leaned down to place a kiss on his daughter's forehead. "I know her name," she realised excitedly.

"Okay, moment of truth," he announced brightly. He'd been waiting for days to name his daughter, yet every time he suggested one to Violet she insisted that it wasn't right for her. "What is it?"

"Claire," she said with a satisfied smile. "Her name is Claire Amelia Jane."

He smiled. "Perfect," he agreed, looking down at the baby. "And how does that name suit you, Claire?" he asked, in the cute tone he reserved for babies, the one that would always leave Violet with weak knees.

Claire, happy to have some attention, opened her mouth wide and seemed to smile.

"Did you see that?" Patrick asked excitedly. "She smiled at me!"

And though she knew that the nurses had told her she was too young to smile, that it was just gas, Violet wanted to believe that it was.


	4. Nothing To Worry About

**Nothing To Worry About**

Patrick Jane stood still, the grand oak tree was blocking the sunlight that would usually be streaming down onto him at this time of day, it's branches reaching up into the sky like hands holding emerald jewels. It was a beautiful tree, particularly evil to climb though, or rather, to descend, so he wasn't looking forward to the task at hand. On one of the high branches there was a stowaway, a grey tomcat perched less than contently, twitching it's striped tail in annoyance as it leered down at Patrick and the small child beside him. Four-year-old Claire attempted to call the cat's name and demand it to come down, but like many of it's kind, it didn't follow directions well and remained unmovable.

Patrick sighed, crossing his arms and turning to his daughter. "So what happened?"

"I was, um, playing with him, and he ran away," Claire answered.

"Did Mrs Lambert know you were playing with her cat?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No, but he was in our garden so I thought he wanted to play with me."

"How are we going to get it down?" he asked her.

Claire shrugged, her shifty behaviour suggesting that it was more than likely that she would have chased the cat up the tree. She adored animals, but she didn't adore anything that did something she didn't like. Nevertheless, Mrs Lambert (or Mrs Next Door Lady, as Claire called her) wouldn't be happy to find her cat stuck in a tree, refusing to come down. The small blonde-haired girl gave her father a sideways glance. Patrick gazed up once again at the branches, to where the cat was. It had changed position, now on it's haunches as the little girl watched anxiously.

Minutes passed, and the cat remained stationary.

"Ok, I'll go up and get him," Patrick decided.

Claire cheered as Patrick walked over to the tree trunk, pulling off his dress shoes and dropping them at the base. Heaving himself onto the first branch, he started his tiresome journey upstairs. The tree bark was rough under his palm, and after several branches in height his speed decreased. The wind up in the lower canopy of the tree was slightly stronger, and he felt the branches sway where they were weaker. Climbing had been a hobby of his as a child, but now he was getting older he wasn't planning on it being his cause of death.

The cat seemed amused with his efforts and stopped it's screeching momentarily. Resting his chin on his paws, he welcomed Patrick with it's best catty grin. Now close, patches of it's lower back looked damp in the scattered sunlight, and a faint odour drifting in the breeze caught Patrick's attention.

He extended his left hand as a token of friendship towards the frisky animal, making sure that his right arm remained wrapped tightly around the main trunk. It seemed to hesitate and rose into a crouching stance. He blinked, not having expected that, and withdrew quickly. A few seconds later, the cat pounced, claws bared in his direction, and it dodged his left thigh narrowly as it landed on the branch below him. There on, it skipped branch to branch like a pro, until it reached the bottom where Claire was standing, chanting encouragements.

"Thank you, daddy, you're a hero," she told him.

He smiled, but didn't get a chance to reply before Claire rushed back to play with the cat again. Now, with his rescue mission completed, Patrick began to realise the great distance that separated him from the ground and he shuddered uneasily.

"Nice view," he noted to himself. "Might stay for a while. No rush."

He dangled his legs over one side, supporting himself using his arms. Going up the tree had been nothing, he'd been able to test which branches would hold his weight, and going down would change that. When he decided to tackle the feat, he found that at least once he had lost his balance, and a few feet from the bottom he lowered his foot, expecting a firm foothold under the last branch, but he found nothing and slid awkwardly down to the ground. After some dusting off, he examined his scratched hands that were covered in dirt, and went to seek out his wife – she knew where the first aid box was kept.

But upon entering the glass sliding doors that lead back into the living room, a frantic cat darted through his legs to get outside. It smelled strongly of wet fur and his wife's shampoo. Claire, who was party dripping wet, poked her head around the doorway and smiled at him.

"Daddy, he escaped again!" she told him.

Patrick just sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon.


	5. Bedbugs

**Bedbugs**

In the middle of the night, Patrick awoke. At first, he wasn't sure what had woken him up; he was only aware of a silence. The bed beside him was empty, as he expected it to be. His mother-in-law had a fall that morning, and Violet had rushed across the state to see her in hospital. She wouldn't be home until the end of the week, more than likely. She wanted to make sure that she was able to cope at home before she returned. Then, he heard the shuffling outside his door, followed by the tiny padding of feet up to the side of his bed. For the moment, he was still tangled in the bedclothes, never able to rest easily when his wife wasn't sleeping beside him, but he untangled himself enough to move. Tossing and turning for half the night was more exhausting than staying awake.

"Daddy?"

"Wha-" he murmured, struggling to render himself properly awake. He was more tired now than he had been when he went to bed.

"Daddy," the voice repeated.

The second whisper was shaking, only it wasn't just any whisper. It was Claire's. The child like whisper that wasn't actually quiet, but was just intended to sound like a whisper.

Patrick opened his eyes, lifting his head from the pillow which was much more crooked than when he had rested his head down on it earlier. Claire was standing by the side of the bed, her stuffed bear in one hand and the other one rubbing at her eye. The four (almost five, she'd protest) year old sounded as if she were still half asleep.

"Claire?" he asked, sitting up as he tried to wake himself up completely. As he moved, he caught side of the clock on the bedside table, showing him that it was only 1.42am. "It's the middle of the night, sweetheart, what are you doing out of bed?"

"Had a dream," she explained, playing with the bottom hemline of her pyjama top now that she had stopped rubbing her eye. "A scary one."

He'd always thought that he had know sure way of knowing how to comfort children. Mind you, five years ago there had been a lot of things that he didn't know how to deal with when it came to children, this being one of them. Violet and himself had been thrown in the deep end, and not many people had been around or willing to offer help to the expecting parents. He had come to realise as he daughter grew up that it was best to act with intuition. She had come to him in the middle of the night because she was scared, and she expected him to do something about that. Now that he was more awake, he could see that there were tears on her face, starting to dry on her tiny cheeks.

"Are you still scared?" he asked her.

Claire nodded, and there was a brief silence where neither of them moved or spoke. Patrick tried to figure out what to do, not used to doing this without his wife's cues. Should he take her back to her own bed, assuring her that it was just a dream and that there was nothing to be scared of? Or should he stay up with her, letting her into his bed to make her feel better until she went back to sleep, even though he had a very early meeting with the Sacramento Police Department in the morning. After a short moment, he decided upon the latter and pulled back the duvet, inviting her onto the mattress beside him. Perhaps they'd both sleep a little better together.

"Come on, honey," he said, waiting until she had curled up on the bed beside him, clutching at her bear whilst she got as close to him as she could, until he spoke again. "What was your bad dream about?" he asked her.

She looked up at him with those large blue eyes that she'd inherited from him. Eyes that were captivating and honest to look at, whereas his were quite the opposite. "Monsters," she told him simply.

"There's no such thing as monsters," he said on impulse.

"But I heard you tell Mommy that the bad man on the news was a monster," she told him quietly.

Patrick sighed. Recently, a serial killer had started operating in California, making the state a very dangerous place, particularly for young women. He was operating under the name of Red John, and a law enforcement agency operating out of Sacramento were interested in his theories as to what the behaviour of the killer could reveal about him. He'd been helped them out from time to time with some of their other cases, missing persons and such, but recently they had requested his help with the serial killer.

"I didn't mean that, sweetheart," he assured her.

She looked at him strangely. "Were you lying?" she asked him, still in the idyllic age where anything a grown up said was the truth, completely oblivious to the fact that her father lied for a living.

"No, not lying," he told her. "Daddy was just wrong. I said that because it was he reminded me of. The man on the news does very bad things to very nice people, so he reminds me of monster stories."

"And if he did something nice, he'd remind you of something nice?" she slowly realised.

"That's right," he nodded. "But just because he makes me think of monsters doesn't mean that monsters are real," he covered, remembering the purpose of easing the nightmare.

"So, there's no monsters under your bed too?" she asked him warily.

"There are absolutely no monsters under my bed," he assured her.

"Promise?" she checked.

He nodded. "I promise."

"But what if you can't see them?" she tested him. "What if they turn invisible or they're hiding?"

"Nothing can turn invisible," he told her, "and they're not hiding because most things you can see, but some things you can't. But monsters aren't real anyway, and if even if they were, which they're not, you'd be able to see them."

Claire looked confused, but it wasn't because of his explanation. "Why can't you see some things?" she asked him.

"Um..." he had been caught out there. "Some things you just can't see, not with your eyes."

"What else do you see from?" she asked with a frown. "I've only got my eyes to see with."

"Some things you see with your eyes," he agreed, "but other things you can only see with your heart."

Claire scrunched up her face. "I don't get it," she told him. "Has your heart got eyes too?"

"No, it just sees things in it's own special way," he told her. "Like your Mom, you love her, right?"

"Yes, lots and lots," she said softly.

"That's something that everybody else can see with their eyes, but when you see it, you see it with your heart," he explained to her, shocked at how much sense he was making for almost two in the morning.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because love is a very special thing," he told her. "People can see when you love someone, and they can see how much you love them, but when you know that you love them, no one else can see it like you can."

Claire huffed. "I still don't get it," she told him.

"You will one day," he assured her. "When you're older."

"I am older," she insisted. "I'm nearly five."

"A bigger girl then," he told her.

"I think you're silly sometimes, Daddy," she told him.

He laughed softly sometimes. "I think so too," he agreed. "Now, come on, you should go back to sleep."

She looked sceptical. "Are you sure there are no monsters?" she asked him.

"Claire, I promise you there are no monsters coming to get you," he assured her.

Not arguing anymore, Claire curled up against him, her little head resting on his chest. The sound of his heartbeat close to her ear comforted her, lulling her back towards the sleep which had been so rudely interrupted by the monsters.

"Daddy," she whispered, so close to sleep now.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I don't want any monsters to get you or Mommy too," she said softly.

Instinctively, his arm feel around her, keeping her in place against him. His lips briefly touched the top of his her head and he whispered back to her, the last words she heard before she fell back into sleep.

"Don't worry, Daddy will protect you all from monsters."


	6. Classroom Of Life

**Classroom of Life**

I have learned that a smile is an inexpensive way to improve your looks.

Violet taught me this. A few times I've come home from work to see that she's been crying, the signs are obvious with her; tear stained cheeks, puffy red eyes, messy hair from where she's been running her fingers through it, blotchy skin – and even though I love her unconditionally, I can admit that she looks terrible. There is nothing attractive about a woman in distress, not when you care for them like I do for her. The only tears I have been able to stand seeing in her eyes were the ones she shed on our wedding day when I recited my vows to her, and the ones she had when she held up that positive pregnancy test. Still, when she cries like that, I wouldn't possibly leave her alone – not even the time when she locked herself in the bathroom and screamed at me to – I talk to her, help her figure out a solution and then try and do what I can to cheer her up – and the she'll smile. Violet has a beautiful smile, one I'm glad that she's passed on to our daughter. Sometimes it's just a tiny smile, other times it's a big grin that's accompanied by a laugh, but no matter the size of the smile it makes her look beautiful, even with the evidence of her tears.

I have learned that I cannot choose how I feel, but I can choose what I do about it.

Violet is the main reason that I've learned this lesson as well. We were young when we met, young enough that I told myself it was a bad idea to get involved with her. Violet was always as stunningly beautiful as she is to this day, shining hair to match shining eyes, skin as clear as day, not a flaw in sight or in mind. Her intelligence was sometimes ridiculous, even managing to catch me out on various occasions. Any man would love her for a number of reasons, and better men than I would be able to put her up on the pedestal that she deserved, yet somehow she kept entrancing me and luring me closer to her. Night after night I told myself that she deserved better, that she could never love a man who had never been to high school, let along college, a man who had come from a carnival, whose father had trained him to con things out of innocent people – but she did, somehow. Miraculously, she loved me, even after she learned the more shameful details of my life. This, Violet, and her love, was my chance to turn my life around, to stop being the carnival boy, to stop being Patrick, the Boy of Wonder who sees all, and to start being the man that she believed me to be. Looking back, this is still the best choice I have ever made – _she_ is the best choice I have ever made.

I have learned that the best classroom in the world is at the feet of an older person.

There was no question about it that my father taught me some of the most important lessons in my life. Though he was terrible at the moral aspect of being a human being, with no sense of empathy, guilt, or any emotion that would put a barrier between him and the monetary gain that he craved so much, he had taught me so many things that would make me the man I am today. He taught me how to make the perfect smores when I was eight years old, something I would go on to teach my daughter when she was four. He taught me how to enhance my talent for reading people, which would make it easy for me to make a living, if not arguably wrong. He taught me that family is more important than anything on this earth, and that it does not matter where you live as long as you are together. Though his methods prevent me from respecting him, he taught me how to be a good father, even if it meant I was learning from his mistakes more often then I was learning from his example.

I have learned that when you are in love, it shows.

I knew that Violet had fallen for me even before she did. After three months of regular dates, she began to show change, small points that she hadn't noticed. A few stray strands of hair would appear when we went on dates, showing that she wasn't making such an incredible effort to look perfect anymore, showing me just how comfortable she was becoming. She would fall against me with a more relaxed ease when we lay together. Her eyes would shine brighter, she wouldn't fight against her temptations to take hold of my hand in public, to kiss me in front of her friends, and to suggest that I meet her parents one weekend. When I observed out loud that she was falling for me, rather than giving me a smirk and a shove, she told me that she'd 'flat out, head over heels, fallen in love with me – I remembered her wording perfectly because I later used it in my proposal to her.

I have learned that having a child fall asleep in your arms is one of the most peaceful feelings in the world.

Violet had a long labour with our daughter. Everyone was exhausted and stressed, none more so than my wife herself. I couldn't blame her when she'd needed to get some sleep when she'd only been holding our new arrival for fifteen minutes. She looked shattered, and I wanted her to get as much sleep as possible while we were still at the hospital. Of course, that left me in charge of this tiny life. I had never held such a small baby before, and I was terrified that the slightest movement would case me to drop her, or that I would make her cry, or that I might break her. I was terrified that somehow my actions in the next few hours of holding her might drastically affect the rest of her life. However, my fears of ruining this sweet little angel were unnecessary. Despite my exhaustion, I managed to stay awake for a further six hours while Violet slept, spending the first night of my daughter's life with her in my arms – not one second did I wish to close my eyes, just in case I should miss the slightest movement. Even now, having Claire in my arms reminds me that everything that makes me cringe about my day is worth it, because it provides for her. Everything melts away in her innocence, and I will sit there for hours, stroking her hair, just being a father to her.

I have learned that you should never say no to a gift from a child.

How anyone could deny a children's gift is beyond me. I love to hear Claire's chirpy voice calling through the house 'mommy, daddy, look what I did!' and she'll come running over to Violet and I, showing us a picture she's painted, complete with the coloured streaks that cover her face, or a model made from cereal boxes and glue. Our kitchen is full of those paintings, pinned to the fridge and the walls. Claire even has all of her models on a shelf along her bedroom wall, still proud of them even if they are over a year old. Even if she didn't want them, I'd find a big box for them and put them away somewhere safe. I'm just as proud of them as she is, and I wouldn't have the heart to throw them away, not when I've seen the achievement in her face when she shows them to us.

I have learned that money does not buy class.

After the money started to pour in from my psychic work, I changed. I worried that it would make me more arrogant, more obnoxious, like the desire for money had done to my father. Instead, I found love with my wife, and happiness with our family. It made me a better person because I knew that I could provide anything that the girls in my life needed. I could buy my wife elaborate gifts, and I could decorate my daughter's bedroom with a real princess theme, but I knew when to hold back. I decided from the moment my daughter was placed in my arms that she would have the world – but she would not be spoiled. I could pay for her riding lessons that she desperately craved when she was older, but I didn't have to pay for the whole horse. I wanted my child to learn the value of working for what you wanted, to appreciate what you have.

I have learned that God didn't do it all in one day, so I shouldn't expect the same from myself.

What did it matter if I didn't manage to potty-train Claire as quickly as I claimed I could? I could admit that sometimes I am over-ambitious with time-limits. Claire would never be potty-trained in a day. A day is not long enough for many things – such as attempting to fix the dryer myself, or re-landscaping the back yard, or organising Claire's bedroom in terms of clothes that she wanted, clothes that didn't fit her anymore, and clothes that she would squeal loudly if I put it in the donations bag and try to claw it from my fingers.

I have learned that life is like a roll of toilet paper – the further you get through the roll, the faster it goes.

It seemed to take forever for Violet and I to get to where we are now, but now that we're here everything progresses so fast. After we were married, it wasn't long before Claire arrived, and now she's growing up so fast. Some days, I can still picture Violet lying on a garden chair, her pregnant stomach basking in the summer sun, and now when she lies like that there's a four year old girl beside her. It only seems like yesterday that we were in the hospital, hearing her newborn cries, and now she's counting the days until her fifth birthday. She's my sweet little angel, one of the two reasons that I get out of bed in the morning, the other, of course, being Violet.

Now, I stand and watch that tiny angel, dancing around in the garden without a care in the world. She wants to be a ballerina, she keeps telling me. Her new dress with a puffy skirt, a present from her mother that morning, contests to her argument that she was born to be a ballet dancer.

"Looks like a princess, doesn't she?" Violet comments as she approaches me from behind, her arms wrapping around my waist with her chin resting on my shoulder.

"Our little princess," I correct her. Claire will always be my little princess. She's a real daddy's girl. I never thought that I could love somebody as much as I love Claire, and Violet. No matter what my baby girl does, I could never be anything less than proud of her. Everything she does makes my heart melt, whether she's smiling at me, or just saying 'love you, daddy'.

I notice how her golden hair shines in the summer air, and I realise that there's no doubt that she's going to get more beautiful with every passing day. "She looks like you, you know," I tell my wife, turning my head to brush my lips against her ear.

She shook her head, laughing at me. "No way, she's all you, Patrick Jane."

"Daddy, you're home!" Claire calls as she comes running over to me. I've been home for twenty minutes, watching her through the patio doors as she pranced around the back yard, but she's only just pulled her mind away from her imagination to see me there. She jumps as I rush to lift her off her feet, a practice we've perfected over the years. Wrapping her arms around my neck as I balance her on my stomach, her little legs snug on my hips, she babbles excitedly. "Daddy, Mommy says that I can go for dancing lessons. Then I can be a real ballet-rina!"

Her pronunciation is poor, but she's four years old and her passion is pure. "That's great, sweetheart," I tell her, even though I knew exactly what Mommy's plans were for her dancing lessons.

I get a funny feeling in the bottom of my stomach that makes me smile when she leans forward and gives me a little kiss. Suddenly, I don't want her to grow up. I don't want her to leave for college, get married, get her own family. I want her to stay here where I can watch every second of her growing. But then I am reminded of all the things she'll do that I can still be a part of. Her first day of school is rapidly approaching at the end of the summer, and she's due to be a bridesmaid at Violet's best friend's wedding in October. And yes, someday she'll have her first boyfriend, and perhaps someday she'll be brave enough to bring him home to meet me – I intend to have a lot of fun with him. One day, when she finds an appropriate man, she'll settle down with him, have some children of her own, and Violet and I will have an excessive amount of spoiling to unleash on them.

My mother died when I was very young, but my father never took off his wedding ring. When I was old enough to understand what this ring signified, my father told me that the commitment he made to his wife as something that he could never make with another woman, and that someday I would understand that myself. Sure enough, I understand that now. I see the matching ring on my wife's finger to my own and couldn't imagine seeing another woman wearing my ring in that way. Violet and I love each other deeply, and Claire and the bands on our fingers are proof of that.

And having my girls with me, close to me, loving me, gives me more security than any lessons I've learned ever could.


	7. Come Back To Bed

**Come Back To Bed**

Morning had always been welcomed as a fast excuse to get out of bed. At least, for Patrick Jane it was. His insomnia was something he'd had since he was a child – something his father used to complain about constantly until he became old enough to get up and get the chores out of the way before his father was even awake. This same insomnia was the reason that he still rushed out of bed the second his wife's alarm went off, something that annoyed her incredibly. She would have loved for him to stay in bed with her and waste the day, for him to hold her in his arms and keep her warm without the duvet...only she didn't realise that he'd been holding her and watching her for hours before she awoke.

Before Violet, Patrick had a usual routine. He'd get out of bed at some ungodly hour, stand underneath a shower to wake him up properly and wash away the grogginess that accompanied his body's unwillingness to sleep, then he'd go make himself a nice cup of tea, before he'd start getting to work, finding new ways in which his talents could get money for them to live off of. There were times that his workload was more demanding, and that it may have been in his best interests to skip the shower and the tea, but he never did.

However, that morning...the 10th of June...he wasn't rushing to get to the shower, or to the tea, or to his work. Lie-ins had never been a much favoured past time of his, until he had met Violet of course. He knew how much she enjoyed her lie-ins, particularly on the weekend, so even when he was rushing around he would never disturb her. Still, even when she didn't need to be out of bed at the crack of dawn with him, she was always downstairs not long after him, unable to ignore his shuffling feet echoing around the otherwise quiet house. So, when the weekend came, she would attempt to make him stay in bed with her for as long as possible.

Right now, Violet was still sleeping. It was a Saturday morning, so it was lie-in time, although recently schedules hadn't exactly been something they had stuck to. The duvet covers were only pulled up to her waist, as the summer often left her throwing off the blankets in the middle of the night, covering to just above her hips. The white sheets and blankets contrasted to the black t-shirt of his that she was wearing – she liked wearing his shirts in bed, and he wasn't about to complain – in his opinion, it was one of the sexiest things a woman could do. Seeing her hair swept over the dark material often made him think that they looked better on her anyway. Although he couldn't see through the duvet, he knew that she wasn't wearing the sweat pants that she sometimes wore in bed – she'd have discarded them in the night, and he was sure he could see them thrown on the floor behind her shoulder. It wasn't like the shirt wouldn't cover her anyway, as it had been a baggy one even when he wore it, and it was clearly swamping Violet's tiny frame.

Her face was the picture of serenity. It had been a while since he had seen her sleep without the presence of a frown, either from stress of their new situation or the worries that plagued both of their minds. However, those worries were now gone from her deep slumber. Her lips were parted ever so slightly, and he could feel the gentle rising and falling of her chest against his side as she curled up against him. Her head was resting on his chest, her body secured under the arm he kept wrapped around her to hold them together even in sleep. A tiny breeze swept across his chest and he watched as the top layer of Violet's hair, longer than it had been when they first met, was scooped back over her shoulder by the wind. The window had been left open so that the room wouldn't get to stuffy throughout the night as when the room was too warm it was impossible for them to get any sleep – especially when it wasn't their body heat that needed to be controlled.

Unconsciously, he tightened his arm around her a little and she moved with him, snuggling under his arm a little more and moving her head against his chest. If she was trying to get closer to him, it had worked, and he smiled down at her fondly. She hadn't lost any of her beauty since the first time he had met her, and now they had been married for six months. He knew that she was waking up when he felt her arm, which had previously been thrown over his stomach, tighten around him for a moment. Her eyes fluttered open and the first thing that she was aware of was that she felt more comfortable than she had done in a long while. She moved her head against him as she enjoyed the comfort. Opening her eyes fully, she reacted to the arms around her with a gentle smile.

Patrick was smiling down at her still, and he allowed one of his arms to spring back into it's usual position as he raised his hand, tucking back a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "Morning," he whispered to her, his voice husky with the night's silence.

"Hey," she smiled sleepily, as she gave her body a quick stretch. When she realised how badly she needed that stretch, it occurred to her why she had felt so peaceful when she awoke. "...well, this is a surprise..." she realised.

Patrick nodded. "Waking up without the crying?"

"Well, that and you already being awake but still in bed," she pointed out.

His gaze softened as he gazed down at her, his fingers still playing with her hair. "Why be up and about, when I can be here with you?"

She closed her eyes, sighing through her laughter. "And now, you sound cheesy," she teased him.

"You love cheesy," he reminded her, turning them so that he was lying above her. His arms unravelled from around her, and settled down onto her hips.

"Not as much as I love you," she smiled from underneath him.

At this, Patrick lowered his lips to hers. He'd always loved their early morning kisses; slow and sensual, with a casual laziness. Slowly at first, they brushed their lips against one another's, before he claimed them completely, placing his lips fully against hers. Both of them had butterflies in their stomachs, a strange experience which they had only ever felt with each other, even though three years of being together meant that their kisses had long amounted to more than they could count to. After a few gentle kisses, Patrick sought entry into her mouth and she parted her lips eagerly, allowing his tongue to clash gently with her own. Her hand travelled to the back of his neck as they kissed, one tangled in the soft hair that rested there, and he lifted one of his own moved from her hip to caress her cheek. Violet let out a tiny sigh against his lips, which in turn encouraged Patrick's moan to escape him, sending vibrations through her mouth which only spurred the kiss on.

Violet clung tightly to him, and whether it lasted a minute or an hour, neither of them really knew or cared. All they knew was that each second of contact still left them feeling weak and dizzy as it had done the first night they had spent together, yet, at the same time, it filled them with an energy that they rarely countered from anything else each others embrace. Parting, but not moving an inch away from each other, Violet opened her eyes to see Patrick already smiling down at her softly, their foreheads resting against one another.

She gave him a weak, exhausted smile. "I love it when you do that," she told him.

He took this as an invitation to return his lips to her willing ones, currently swollen from his caresses. This time, however, their kiss was interrupted by a cry from the other side of the room. They parted with a tiny laugh and Patrick moved from above her, getting out of the bed. "I'll get her," he told her, crossing the room to approach the crib that held their daughter. Their daughter. He still couldn't get over the warm feeling when he said that.

Claire was still only three months old. The first few months of their baby girl's life was passing quickly, too quickly for either of their liking. Not for the first time, Patrick wished he were able to turn back time, so that one more time he could see how Claire had shown them her first smile last weekend, or watch as they struggled to bath her together for the first time. Photographs were always a job for them to have, but actually reliving the moments on a more physical way than a memory would be something he would trade the world for.

With an expertise that had developed over the first three months of their daughter's life, Patrick changed her diaper, Violet watching as he held his daughter's attention for the entire time. Claire adored her father, even at three months old. She now recognised her fathers voice when he entered the room and no matter whose arms she was in at the time, she would crane her neck towards the direction of his voice. Then again, she was a momma's girl at heart, there was no denying that. She knew immediately when she was being held by her mother, even when she was sleeping. Whenever someone passed her to Violet she would open her eyes for a fraction of a second, see that it was Violet holding her, and then she would fall back asleep, her tiny hand balling into a fist on whatever shirt she was wearing. She was always well-behaved for her parents – unlike with her grandparents.

Patrick finished changing her diaper and then bought their little angel over to the bed. No one, it seemed, was ready to get up yet, and Claire wasn't due a feed for another hour and she seemed content now that she had a clean diaper on so going back to bed was a much more inviting option. He placed their daughter on the mattress between them, both parents lying on either side of her, looking down at her as they propped themselves up on their sides.

Claire made some incoherent, yet pleased, noises when she saw Violet looking down at her. "Hey there, sweetheart," she cooed to her softly, holding out her hand to her. Claire reached out with her own hands and wrapped her tiny fingers around hers and exploring it with a deep, clear concentration written over her little face. At the moment, she had a fascination with hands.

"I can't believe she's three months old already," Patrick said with a sigh.

Violet nodded in agreement. "She already looks so different."

She moved her hand from within Claire's grasp and gently trailed her finger down her cheek. Claire tried to follow her finger with his eyes but soon trailed them up, following her arm up to her shoulder and giving her a big, gummy smile when she looked to her mother's face again. True, she was changing. She was no longer the wrinkled baby she had been when she was born. Her skin was flawless, the only blemish crossing her face was when she cried, and her cheeks turned red. Her eyes had stayed the same from birth, and her hair was still growing in steady whisps on her head – Patrick was certain she was going to be a curly baby.

Patrick kissed his daughters nose, she made a gurgle and Violet smiled at them both. "You're a really good father, Pat," she told him.

He smiled. "I guess I do ok," he noted. "She's survived this long, after all."

"I mean it," she told him, ignoring his playfulness. "You don't need to worry about everyone who told you that you couldn't do it. You're the best."

He smiled harder, and Claire gurgled along with her mother, as if confirming her statement. "Well, you were pretty much a mother the second you said you were pregnant."

Violet laughed at his. "Live in a house with you and all your tricks and I'd like to see you without eyes in the back of your head," she mocked him.

He laughed too, but shook his head. "That's not what I meant," he told her. "You were just a mother without a baby," he explained.

"And now we've got one," she said, turning her attention to their daughter once more. "You know, I still can't get over how beautiful she is," she admitted gently with a proud smile.

"Its because she looks like her mother," Patrick told her.

"Do you ever wonder how we came down this road?" she asked him.

He nodded. "Yeah, but then I remember that you're her mother, and I know how much I love you, and how much I love Claire, and I don't have to wonder anymore."

She blushed, leaning over to give him a kiss. "I love you too."


	8. Special Things

**Special Things**

One particular Friday morning, in late August, dawned much earlier than it usually did; well, for Claire at least. She was used to sleeping through her parent's morning ritual of showering and getting dressed. It was only once her cereal was on the table in her favourite lilac bowl, which she liked especially because it didn't match any of the other bowl colours in the kitchen, that her father would come into her room and gently shake her awake. Sometimes, when Patrick was working away, Violet would be the one to do it, but she'd always grumble that it wasn't Daddy. Even so, he'd let her complain about being tired still, curl up with her much loved pink unicorn, who she'd named Sally, and sleep for another ten minutes before Daddy came back, opened the curtains wide and allowed the sunlight to wake her up properly – Malibu sunlight was especially good at this.

But this morning was different, and she didn't like it. Daddy had come into her room much earlier, sitting her in front of the television for a while so that she'd be fully woken up by the time he got out of the shower, and Claire didn't like it. Violet had stayed overnight at a friends who was going through a rough divorce, and wanted some company, so it put Patrick in charge of speaking to Claire about something very important. He wasn't looking forward to it. Claire wasn't happy because none of her favourite programmes were on this early, but he had a private consultation at nine o'clock and he needed to drop her off with Violet and her friend before then. They had rushed through dressing, and breakfast, and, when Daddy had finally become too afraid to mention the conversation himself, they had driven to find Mommy.

They were now sat in Violet's divorcee friend, Sarah's, back yard, watching the morning heat start to wake the flowers up. Claire had been happy to curl up in her mother's lap at the patio table because it hadn't been Mommy who had woken her up that early, so she allowed Mommy to braid her hair, and let Mommy get into the little amount of her good mood that she could allow for that hour of the morning. No good mood for Daddy, though. No, Daddy was in the bad books. Daddy had made her get out of bed early. Daddy had nearly left Sally the unicorn in the car. Daddy had almost left Sally behind altogether until Claire had stamped her feet outside the house. Daddy had forgotten to brush her hair before they left. Daddy had used the wrong bowl at breakfast.

Daddy had just given her a very bad piece of news that she certainly wasn't happy about.

"So," he said brightly, his voice full of over dramatic hope. "What do you think, honey?"

Claire looked up at her mother, pouting her lip, then back at her father. "I don't wanna go pre-school," she complained.

"I know, sweetie, but it'll be fun," Violet tempted her, using a high voice to try and convince her of this fact, even though it clearly wasn't working.

"Fun at home," she argued back.

"You'll make lots of new friends," Patrick told her.

"Matt and Tilly are my friends," she pointed out, indicating to Sarah's two children who were currently inside getting ready for school. Patrick wanted to point out that the other children were eight and ten, so were already at school which wouldn't inconvenience Claire at all, but he decided not to.

"Lots of friends who are the same age as you," Violet said, as she felt the need to bring up the matter. "Wouldn't you like more friends, Claire?"

She didn't answer her mother's question. Instead, she frowned more. "Why do I gotta go?" she whined.

"Because it's part of being a big grown up girl and you're going to love it," Violet told her.

"I'm sure she's very excited really, Mommy," Patrick told Violet to try and convince Claire further. "Aren't you, sweetie?"

"No," Claire deadpanned.

"Why not?" he asked her. "Pre-school is fun."

"I don't want new friends," she decided.

Violet finished the last braid on her hair. "Matt and Tilly will still be your friends, Claire."

"But I won't get to see them whenever I wanted," she whined.

"No, but that means that when you do get to see them, it will be much more special," Violet told her.

Claire considered this point for a moment. "I do like special things..."

"We know you do," Patrick said with a brainwave. "That's why you're going to a special preschool for princesses!"

Claire brightened up even more. "Real princesses?" she asked.

"Maybe, I guess you'll have to find out," he tempted her. "What do you think? Can we give pre-school a try?"

Claire nodded, and Patrick smiled. "Great."

* * *

Monday morning came around too quickly for Claire's liking, and Sunday night had been a long struggle to get her to go to bed because she knew that the following morning involved preschool. Most of the weekend she'd been dropping hints that she didn't want to go, and they had been throwing them back at her reminding her that she had enjoyed playing there when Violet had taken her to a sample afternoon on the Friday they had told her about it. She still didn't want to go, though, and that had intensified when she realised that her mother would be staying home all day still and she wouldn't get to stay with her. So, when Monday morning rolled around, both Patrick and Violet stood outside the young girl's bedroom, wondering how badly this was going to go. The two were already fully dressed, Violet in simple jeans and a white blouse, while Patrick was suited up for a consult. He'd agreed to be the one to wake Claire up because he would already be working when Violet took her to preschool.

"This isn't going to go well," Patrick realised, peeking through the small gap in the door to confirm that Claire was still sleeping.

"You wake her up nearly ever morning," Violet reminded him.

"This is different," he stressed. "This is...the first day of school."

"Preschool," she corrected him.

"It's still a milestone."

Thinking back over their daughter's antics that weekend, Violet laughed lightly. "Claire doesn't see it that way."

"She'll love it," Patrick said. "She'll have a great time and make lots of friends..."

"You sound like you're convincing yourself," Violet told him.

He pouted. "No, I'm not."

Shaking her head, Violet peeked into the bedroom with her own eyes. "Somehow, I don't believe you."

"I just don't think now is the right time," he complained, as if he hadn't already had this conversation with his wife three hundred and eighty two times.

"Patrick, we've been over this," she told him clearly. "She should have started in the spring. It's time. Claire will be perfectly safe at the preschool."

"I know," he sighed.

"You know we wouldn't have gone through with this if it was somewhere she wasn't going to be completely happy."

"I know," he repeated.

"She's a sociable child. She'll make friends in no time."

This time, Patrick turned to her grumpily. "Now you sound like you're convincing yourself."

At this, she looked at him in frustration. "What is the matter with you this morning, Patrick?" she asked.

"She's going to be looked after by other people for most of the day, isn't that enough to be annoyed about?" he justified.

"So, you're upset?"

"No, that's not what I said," he shook his head.

"But it was what you mean," she realised. At this, Patrick looked away into the bedroom where his sleeping daughter had, at the moment, spread every limb in a different direction across the bed. "Change isn't always a bad thing, Pat. She's just growing up."

"I don't want her to grow up," he said unfairly. "I want her to stay exactly how she is."

"We all have to grow up at some point," she pointed out.

"But does it really have to be now?" he asked. She was silent, giving him the moment and watching as it dawned on him how much he was fighting this development in their daughter's life. He sighed, leaning against the doorframe. "I'm being immature about this," he realised.

"No, you're just being a dad," she said softly, putting a hand on his arm.

"Guess no one looks forward to this day," he remarked.

"She'll be fine, Pat," she continued, stepping up behind him and leaning against his back. He tried to focus on looking at Claire, rather than the feel of Violet against his body. "You know this. If you forget about that for a moment, look forward to seeing how happy she'll be when she runs to meet you at the door tonight, excited to tell you about her friends and how happy she was."

He could picture the look on her face, the bright eyed expression that she always got when she'd discovered something new and magical, and he smiled. "I guess you're right."

"Of course I am," she said simply, giving him a gentle push into the bedroom. "Now, go wake her up. We don't want her to be late on her first day."

"Ok," he said, not moving as Violet moved down the hall.

When she reached the stairs she turned back, seeing how he was still standing in the doorway. "Pat!" she warned.

"I'm going," he said, jumping quickly into the bedroom.

He went up to Claire's bedside, leaning over to notice that she was deep in sleep. A simple shake for breakfast wasn't going to tempt her, so he went over to the window and pulled back the curtains. As sunlight scattered into the room, he gathered all his energy into a bubbly routine that she would have to follow along with.

"Wake up!" he said brightly.

Shocked at the combination of talking and sunshine, Claire snapped up from the pillow, looking around her in confusion. "...huh?"

Patrick went over to the bed, pulling down the bedclothes and standing up on the mattress. "Come on, princess, up we get."

She leaned forwards, putting her arms around him for a cuddle. "Tired," she complained sleepily.

"I know, but you'll be nice and awake once we get you some breakfast," he assured her, releasing her to go over to her closet. When he returned with an outfit for her, she was rubbing at her eyes.

"Hungry," she mumbled.

"I thought so," he told her. "Mommy's making you a nice breakfast. A special breakfast for big girls."

"'Kay," she mumbled, allowing Patrick to dress her.

After dressing her and brushing her hair, making no attempt to try and control her furiously growing blonde ringlets, they headed down to the kitchen together. Violet was making pancakes, the special breakfast they had promised to her, and after some promoting from her parents, Claire was actually starting to warm up to the idea and began to look forward to leaving for preschool. When Claire was eating, Violet took behind her so she could pull the little girl's curls into a neat pigtail. As she did this, Patrick watched the two of them, his beautiful girls, but he was interrupted when his phone rang.

He pulled it from his pocket, lifting it to his air. "Patrick Jane...oh, hello, Sandra, how can I help you?...I understand, of course...Call me next week and we'll arrange another appointment for you...goodbye..." he hung up, smiling and kicking his shoes off with such force that they ended up flying across the kitchen floor and crashing against one of the cabinet doors.

Violet looked at him, her face covered with exasperation. "Was that really necessary, Patrick?" she asked him.

"Yes, actually," he grinned.

She frowned at him. "Hadn't you better be leaving for work, before you destroy the rest of our kitchen?"

"No," he continued to smile. "My eight-thirty cancelled, burst kitchen pipe, so I'm free until one o'clock.

"Then you can come with me to take Claire to preschool," she told him.

At this, Claire grinned. "Daddy's coming too?"

"Yes, he is," Violet answered for him, turning her voice into a sweet tone. "And we're leaving very soon so he'd best get his shoes from where he threw them and put them back on."

* * *

The enthusiasm that Claire had then they left the house had disappeared by the time they got to the preschool. Several of the younger children were crying when their mother's left them there, and seeing this had only made Claire worse. Violet was now glad that Patrick was with them as well, because if he hadn't been, she might not be able to pry Claire away from where she had wound herself around her father's leg.

"Claire, come on, princess..." Patrick tried to convince her, unable to bend down to her level like Violet had done because of the tight grip she had around his knee.

"No!" she insisted, her eyes tightly shut.

"You'll have fun," Violet told her.

"No!"

"You'll make new friends," Patrick tried.

"No!"

Patrick and Violet sighed, looking at each other helplessly. "I told you this was a bad idea," he mumbled to his wife.

He was saved from his wife's answer when Michelle, who would be Claire's primary carer at the preschool, came over to them having noticed the problem they were having. "Good morning, Claire," She announced brightly. "Are you looking forward to having lots of fun today?"

"No!"

Patrick looked at the poor woman awkwardly. "She's, uh..."

"It's ok," Michelle smiled. "Not a lot of children want to be separated from their parents, especially on their first day."

"This happens a lot?" Violet asked.

She nodded. "On every first day we have," she said, bending down to Claire's level as Violet had done. "Would you like to come and play a game, Claire?"

"No!"

"How about we read a story?"

"No!"

"Lisa was going to sing us some songs, would you like to join in?"

"No!"

"We could go and play with the princess castle and get the costumes out?"

At this, Claire opened one eye, observing Michelle warily. "Princess castle?" she asked.

"Yeah, we love our princess castle," Michelle told her brightly. "We can dress up in the costumes and pretend to be real princesses."

"Princess dresses?" she asked, now opening her other eye as well.

"Yes, we have lots of them," she assured her, then looking at what Claire was wearing. "You look like you like pink. We have a really pretty pink dress."

"Really?" she asked, turning her head to face Michelle.

"Really, really," she grinned back. "Would you like to try it on?"

Claire was quiet, turning her head to face her mother, who was on her other side. "They have princess dresses, Mommy," she said, as if she hadn't been listening to the entire conversation.

"They do," Violet nodded with a smile. "It sounds very fun, don't you think?"

Claire nodded, and then looked up at Patrick. "Daddy, I think I want to go and play now," she announced quietly.

"That sounds like a wonderful idea," Patrick said, bending down to her level once she'd leg go of his leg. "How would you like to stay here and play princesses with Michelle, and Mommy and I are going to go home for a while, and then Mommy will come and pick you up later?" he suggested.

At this, Claire hesitated "But that's a long time away," she realised.

"I have an idea," Violet smiled. "You can stay and play until lunchtime, and then after you have your lunch if you decide you want to come home, Michelle can call me and I'll come straight over to get you. How does that sound?"

Claire thought about this for a second, looking between the adults but then seeing the other little girls playing with the dresses. "'Kay," she decided. "I stay."


	9. Insomnia

**Insomnia**

Patrick was used to having insomnia. At first, it had annoyed him, and he would spent the night wandering the house desperately searching for things to do, but eventually he'd accepted that he'd never tire himself out enough to get a decent nights sleep, so he'd learned to survive on what little sleep he could get. Now, he was content to spend the night watching his wife sleep, however he couldn't get away with this when she was awake. She'd never be able to fall asleep when she could feel his eyes upon her, not when he had such a heavy, thoughtful gaze. He was pretty sure he hadn't been doing that tonight, but apparently not.

Still, he wasn't used to Violet having insomnia. She was usually so exhausted from running around after their daughter all day that falling asleep was never something that she struggled with. Tonight, however, she was facing away from him so that her back would have been against his chest were it not for the substantial gap between them. It was more the space that made him frown towards her, and he shifted slightly closer, propping himself up on one arm and waiting to see if she knew what he was doing. She remained silent, though, and eventually he spoke into the two a.m. darkness.

"Are you asleep?" he whispered.

"I'm trying to be," she mumbled back, without turning.

"I can't sleep either," he stated.

"That's what's causing my insomnia," she moaned. If she couldn't feel his eyes burning into the back of her head from the moment she lay her head on the pillow, she'd have been asleep an hour ago.

"You don't get insomnia," he told her simply.

"I don't usually," she told him. "You know I don't sleep when I know I'm being watched."

"Who says I'm watching you?" he said.

She rolled over to face him, proving her own point.

"Ok, you caught me," he surrendered.

"Pat, please go to sleep," she urged. "I'm exhausted and I can't sleep with you hovering over me."

He frowned. "What's bothering you?"

"Nothing," she shook her head against the pillow. "I just want to go to sleep. Raising your daughter is more exhausting than it should be."

He was quiet for a moment when she rolled over, noticing that she did look exhausted. He supposed that his current work negotiations hadn't made things easy for her the past few days. When he was just doing private appointments he was home a lot and they split the childcare and the housework equally, but now that he had been looking over a part-time contract with the California Bureau of Investigation in regards to helping them with a serial killer case, and he hadn't been home a lot while they'd been catching him up on the case so far.

"I'm sorry I've been such a terrible husband the past few days," he apologized, strangely finding that his words were sincere.

"You're not terrible," she assured him, shifting closer to the centre of the bed. "You're just a little absent sometimes."

"It was just while I was being introduced to the case," he excused. "Tomorrow I start properly; I should be back to usual hours, more or less."

"Yeah, you do," she mused.

"Did you miss me?" he asked, attempting to flash her a grin.

"I didn't miss the extra laundry from you changing your shirt five times a day," she teased him in return.

"Twice!" he corrected her. "I changed my shirt twice, once for a spilt cup of a tea and the second time was thanks to a seagull with a grudge."

"But yes," she continued. "I have missed you."

He looked at her, seeing how their hands were now laid in the space between them on the mattress. "It will be weird, working out of a proper office," he admitted.

"Be careful, Patrick," she suddenly whispered.

He frowned at her. "I am careful," he defended.

"You know what I mean," she mumbled, not wanting to repeat it.

He looked at his wife strangely. "Do you always worry about me this much, or is this a special occasion?" he said, only half-teasing her.

"I usually don't have to worry," she pointed out. "You're not usually working with dangerous people."

He found his gaze falling on their hands again, and this time he took hers. "We talked about this, Vi. You know I won't have any personal contact with anyone even remotely dangerous. I'm strictly a consultant."

She frowned a little. "I still don't like this."

He kissed her hand. "Violet, nothing bad is going to happen."

"They found another body," she blurted out. "That serial killer, the one they want you to work with, they think he killed again."

"I know," he whispered, remembering the grisly crime scene photos they'd showed him that afternoon. "You have a bad feeling about this?" he asked.

She nodded. "Really bad?"

"Violet, this is just like any other job," he assured her. "I'll tell them what they need to know, I'll come home, and I'll move onto the next job."

"No, you won't," she said, of that she was sure. "This is going to be an on going investigation, and you know that."

He kissed her forehead. "We'll be fine, nothing is going to happen. Don't worry about time. My help could put this serial killer in prison where he deserves to be," he pointed out. "Now, try and get some sleep."

"Keep staring at me when I'm trying to sleep and you'll be sleeping permanently," she warned him.

He had to smile at her sleepy threat, and he removed the hand propping him up so that he was laying properly down on the pillow. His smile only grew when she shuffled closer to him and put her head on his shoulder. "Goodnight, Violet," he whispered.

"Night, Pat."


	10. Something Real

**Something Real**

He could count on one hand the amount of times he had been in a hospital corridor, and he certainly couldn't remember a time when he'd ever stood still in one of them. He'd always fidget, shuffle around, look for a reason to leave, but not now. When it fell quiet, he noticed how loud and chaotic the hospital was, filled with the bustling every day sounds that were so strange and foreign to him, far away from the noises of his every day life. Doctors were rushing backwards and forwards, gathering files and preparing for surgeries. He was glad that he didn't have to deal with this hustle and bustle as part of his career. He couldn't imagine anything more uncomfortable. Families were on their way to get coffee. If, like usual, he'd been paying attention to what was going on behind his turned back, he would have noticed that he would have seen the same people on the before and after trips to the coffee machine. He did enjoy that coffee machine, even though it spat out coffee that looked like mud it did a beautiful cup of tea. More families were visiting relatives, some holding helium balloons with the ribbons and brightly coloured weights, others holding flowers.

Yet, as preoccupied as he usually was with the finer details of everything going on around him, he only had eyes for one person at the moment.

Patrick pressed his hand next to his forehead, beside the skin which had already been flattened by the weight of his adoration pressing it into the glass. He looked through the thin criss-cross pattern on the glass, thankful that the blinds on the other side of the window had been pulled to the top so that his view wasn't obstructed by the panels on it. The glass was all that separated him from the tiny form that lay sleeping before him.

For over an hour now he'd been there. Just standing. Just watching. He knew that it had been a long time because his legs were starting to feel the need to be stretched to get the feeling back in them. He didn't, though. He couldn't even think about moving from that spot. Standing there, watching over the fragile body, felt so right and so real that even if it were wrong he would have done it. As strong as his need to pick up on people's habits and pick things apart was, he wouldn't have moved for anything. He almost laughed at how quickly his instinct had appeared – he would have, were he not quite so terrified. Already he knew that he would have died just for the happiness of this child before him.

"Hey."

Nothing so far had pulled his eyes away from the baby, but the tiny voice he knew so well succeeded where other sounds had failed. He looked up, removing his forehead from the cool glass and turned to see Violet walking towards him.

"Hey," he smiled back to her, the grin that plastered his face still residing from when it had been put there the previous morning.

Violet came to stand at his side and he removed his hand from the glass as well, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and closing the gap between them that was filled by air. She joined him in watching the baby as she slept peacefully, unaware that the two adults on the other side of the glass were watching her with matching adoration in their eyes.

Patrick turned his head ever so slightly, his eyes landing immediately on his target – Violet. Her and the baby on the other side of the glass being the only two people he wanted to look at for the rest of his life. "You should still be resting, Vi," he pointed out to her.

Violet still had fatigue written all over her body. She was exhausted from the delivery, which had been long and hard work for her being her first labour. It was the hardest thing she had ever needed to do, nothing else even comparing to the focus and drive she had needed. Still, she hadn't stopped smiling since then. Not for a single second. "I know," she nodded. She knew that Patrick was worried about her and she knew all too well that she was supposed to be in the room down the hall, in her bed, resting, recuperating, and everything else that her body needed. "I just had to see her," she sighed, smiling at the baby who slept so soundly, regardless of the other crying babies around her.

Patrick turned from the baby so that he could see Violet's face fully. She was glowing with motherhood, more so now than she had done during her pregnancy, and an air of happiness radiated from her rosy red cheeks. Although she was tired and there was a small dark presence underneath her eyelids, her eyes were sparkling with an uncontrollable desire to freeze time and remain exactly where she was. Her hair, once pulled into a neat pony-tail, was now falling loosely at the front, the shorter layers framing her face in a halo of sorts which shimmered under the corridor lights.

"That was your excuse half an hour ago," he smiled at her.

She smiled up at him, leaning her head on his shoulder as she turned once again to look at the baby that their love had created. No wonder she was so beautiful. "I just can't stand to be away from her," she admitted, pure adoration streaming from her eyes towards the baby. She looked up at him, noticing the same look of love in his eyes. "From the look of things, neither can you."

Caught out, he laughed and bought her closer to him, complimenting her lips with a soft kiss which she happily accepted. "She's so beautiful," Patrick said for the thousandth time in only a day, as he paid close attention to the closed eyelids and the small, chubby cheeks and the tiny shaped nose that made up his daughter's face. "I almost can't believe we've made it this far."

"Me neither," she agreed.

They had come through many obstacles to be standing there that day, looking at their child and knowing that there was nothing but good times ahead of them. Their road to happiness hadn't been an easy one, yet no matter what life threw at them they had always loved each other, right from the start. No matter what else came into the equation, they gave their hearts away after they had fused their lives together and never intended to bring back the pieces of their hearts to make two separate people again.

"It's nice to have something this real we can share," Violet whispered aloud, burying her head into the groove of her husband's shoulder, which she knew fit her head perfectly.

Patrick picked up one of her hands in his, bringing it to his lips and placing a kiss onto the golden band that he had placed there not even six months ago. No matter what life had in store for him now, his girls would always make it better.


	11. Ballet Shoes

**Ballet Shoes**

"_It bought out in me the person whom I had the potential to become. I think that's why I loved it for it's own sake, not to be a ballerina."_

The longer Patrick stared at the quote on the poster, the more it seemed to make sense to him – however, that might have had something to do with the running commentary of Mrs. Randall that was playing non-stop into his ear as he stared at it. It hadn't taken him long to work out that this was the same 'Matilda' that Violet would rant about for supplying child raising tips, housekeeping tips, and (the ultimate blow to his wife's ego) recipes. The fact that he was the only father in the room made him an easy target for her talking, it seemed.

His promise to take Claire along to her first dance session had not been forgotten. Although Violet would have easily fought him over the privilege of seeing her dance in the outfit she'd insist on them buying for her, it was Daddy who would end up with the special moment. He could still remember the way that Claire's eyes had lit up when they told her that she could go to the ballet lessons, which was partly why he wanted to be there so much. If she was that excited about the prospect of the lessons that he wanted to see the look on her face once she was there. He'd seen how something that could seem so insignificant to an adult, like taking half an hour to watch a dance recital, could be the greatest honour in the world to a child. Besides, he hadn't just promised Claire that he'd be there, he'd also promised Violet that he would cancel his usual Tuesday evening appointment with Mrs. Alison to be there to take her. He'd rather suffer the elderly woman's tears next week than miss this first lesson and endure the matching 'you are in so much trouble' look that his wife and daughter managed to imitate of each other so well.

So he was stuck sitting on the most uncomfortable plastic chair in the world, staring at the poster of ballerina Suzanne Farrell. He knew her name only because it was printed in cursive handwriting underneath the quote itself on the poster. When Matilda Randall had noticed him looking at it so intently (because the girls were out the back of the studio being shown where to hang their coats and he had nothing else to do) she had launched into a biography on the ballerina's life. He half took in the information on how she was one of the most noted ballerinas of the twentieth century, the founder of her own ballet company, and how her stage career had been shattered by the onset of arthritis. He mainly only listened enough to know when to say 'hmm' and 'interesting' and occasionally a 'really?'. Thankfully, Matilda didn't pick up on this.

"My Natasha adores her," she cooed, staring up at the poster like he did. "She has the same poster on her bedroom door."

He wanted to point out that this probably wasn't out of the admiration that she imagined. Natasha was five years old. She had probably seen a poster with a ballerina in a pink tutu with the word 'ballerina' featuring somewhere on the picture and decided that the poster would look absolutely perfect on her pink bedroom wall. Instead, he just nodded.

"Claire has a Little Mermaid poster," he replied.

A few moments later he was saved from more ballet and opera history discussion when the girls came back into the main studio where they all sat along the edge. Claire, surprisingly, was one of the smallest of the girls, all aged between four and six. She tottered in on her miniature pumps (covered in sequins because she couldn't bare them to look plain) as the other two girls he recognised as her friends, Natasha and Annabelle, rushed alongside her. He was pleased to see her chattering along with some of the other girls in the group, though, especially as Matilda pointed out to him that a lot of these girls would end up in the same school together at the end of the summer – just another daunting realisation that his daughter was becoming a 'big girl'.

The three girls giggled when their instructor, Celina, reminded them that dancers do not run, that they glide, and it was then that Claire spotted her father. Her face broke out in an excited grin an she bounced for a moment, waving at him. He raised a hand back but she barely saw it before she rushed to stand at the bar with the other girls, casting her eye through to the neighbouring studio in awe of the older dance class taking place at the same time. Their exchange had been momentary but it had been enough for her to realise that her father was there, watching her, seeing her dance, and that had made her smile.

And to see her smile, he thought, was worth suffering Matilda Randall's company for.

* * *

"And did you see my spinning? I think I'm good at spinning..."

Claire continued to babble excitedly as Patrick turned the key in the lock, opening the front door and letting her run into the hall ahead of him. He crouched down to help her with her coat, which apparently she was too excitable to do herself, and she continued to recall all the events that he'd actually watched intently.

"And Miss Celina said that at Christmas we can do a big show and lots of people can come and watch and our mommy's and our daddy's can all come and watch," she continued, but she stooped abruptly, her face turning in the direction of the kitchen with her nose sniffing in the air. "Sketty! Sketty! Sketty!" she chanted loudly, jumping on the spot. Patrick smiled at her pronunciation of the word 'spaghetti' and followed after her as she ran down the hall chanting "Mommy's cooking sketty!" at the top of her voice.

He loved these moments of domesticity. He wouldn't ever have imagined he'd be able to do this, walk into his home with his child, watch as she eagerly jumped into the arms of her mother. The two of them hugged as he walked past them with the mail in his hands, kissing them both briefly before taking over watching the dinner with one hand and using the other to awkwardly open the mail, so that his wife and daughter could talk about the ballet session. Nothing could possibly feel as right as these moments, he thought.

As he stirred through the bolognaise sauce that Violet had made from scratch, he didn't think about how exhausted his was from his early afternoon appointment, even though he'd had to cut it short to pick up Claire, or how much he wanted to have a nice hot shower, get into some more comfortable lounge clothes and relax in front of a movie for the night. In fact, he didn't think about anything. He just took in the blissfully normal world around him.

Dinner simmering gently on the stove, the radio was playing some kind of chart hit that he'd heard before but couldn't recognise by name, it sounded like the kind of song that Claire would hum along to though, as it didn't really seem like Violet's kind of song. Claire was showing her mother how she did her twirls and her jumps, mispronouncing the real names for them. Violet made the exaggerated sounds of amazement that she knew Claire adored. The kettle was also boiling on the other side of the room, as it always was when Violet heard his key turning in the lock, two cups and saucers of tea, one with extra sugar, for Violet, already stood by the kettle with a new carton of milk.

Normal, his head agreed with his initial view.

Perfect, his heart corrected.

"I'm glad you had fun," Violet smiled, as Claire's ballet story finally ended at the same time as dinner had done. Violet stood to clear the plates but Patrick got there first, allowing the two of them to continue. "Maybe next week Mommy will come, if Daddy has to work?" she suggested.

Claire's eyes lit up at the thought. "Really?"

"I'd love to," Violet nodded.

"Because everyone else's mommy's were there," she pointed out. "Daddy was the only daddy there."

"I had the joy of meeting Matilda Randall," Patrick told his wife as he lifted her plate from in front of her. He laughed as she cringed at the mere idea and took the plates over to the dishwasher, loading them in.

"Perhaps she can have you," she teased him.

"Well," he smiled, pressing a kiss to her hair. "She did have some fantastic recipes..."

He had to duck when a coaster came flying towards his head.


	12. Emergency

**Emergency**

Violet went about her usual morning routine, heading into Claire's bedroom to open her curtains. It used to be a shared routine with her husband, but since Patrick had started consulting for the California Bureau of Investigation he'd been disappearing at the crack of dawn, long before she woke their daughter for school. "Claire, wake up, it's morning!" she said brightly, waiting for the inevitable onslaught of 'where's daddy?' that were always her first words in the morning. However, the bundle beneath the blankets didn't move and complain like usual. "Claire?" she asked, and at the little girl's moan she sat down at the side of the bed and peeled back the blankets. "Claire, honey, it's time for breakfast and school."

"Mommy?"

"You still sleepy, baby?" she mumbled.

Claire nodded, rubbing her eyes.

"What do you want for breakfast today?" she asked.

"Nuffin'," Claire grumbled, turning on her side to try and get back to sleep again.

"You'll be hungry when you're at school later if you don't have breakfast," Violet pointed out, her voice gentle but still stern.

But still, Claire shook her head. "No breakfast," she decided.

"No breakfast?" she repeated, a little shocked that her daughter was turning down her favourite meal of the day.

"No school," she continued.

She frowned, that wasn't like Claire at all. Claire liked school. "Sweetie, do you feel sick this morning?" she asked, worry seeping into her tone.

Claire just turned, cuddling into her mother. "No school, mommy."

Her worry increased and she put a hand on her daughter's forehead, a little startled at how warm it felt. The weather was warmer here, but that shouldn't account for this rise in temperature, and she hadn't been this warm the night before. Gathering Claire into her arms with the child's legs wrapped around her stomach, she lifted her from the bedclothes. "Come on, sweetie, let's check your temperature."

They went downstairs and she laid Claire out on the couch while she retrieved her cell phone from the small table at the bottom of the stairs where she had left it that morning. She then collected some clean, cooler pyjamas for Claire from the laundry pile so that she could change her into something that might not smother her tiny body so much. She was clearly not going to school with a temperature like this – she was no doctor, but she knew when her child was sick. First of all she phoned the school and left a message to say that Claire wouldn't be attending that day, then she went back to the living room with the thermometer from the bathroom cabinet, sitting down at Claire's side again. She small girl responded by crawling into Violet's lap, settling against her in a tight ball.

"Open wide, sweetie," she coaxed, allowing her to insert the thermometer. When she pulled it out again she saw that the number read 102. A fever of 102 degrees. Too high. Too high for a girl so small, she knew. She opened up her cell phone again, dialling a familiar number but she held but a curse when she heard a recorded message of a human voice.

"_The number you have dialled is unavailable. Please hang up and try again..."

* * *

_

Having tried and failed several times to contact Patrick, Violet rang the paediatrician. "So it might just be a virus?" she checked with Doctor Dyer, as she walked back into the living room with a cool cloth in her hands.

"Being around so many new children at school must have exposed her to a number of new illnesses, it happens with many children when they start school," Dr Dyer assured her.

"She wasn't herself last night," Violet remembered. "She didn't have this fever but she seemed lethargic and she said that her head had been hurting her. She'd been sitting so close to the television that I thought it might be that so we just took her up to bed. She slept fine and she didn't get up in the night, so I assumed she'd be fine this morning."

"I'd recommended letting her get some rest," Dr Dyer instructed, as Violet sat down with Claire and drew the little girl into her arms. "Keep checking that fever every twenty minutes in case it rises. If it seems to be rising continuously take her straight to the emergency room."

"Thank you, doctor," she sighed, hanging up the phone and turning her attention to her daughter. Claire showed little co-operation with her wanting to straighten her out a little so she could cool her with the cloth, but she managed to move her somewhat so that she could begin wiping around her face and neck to cool her down.

"No, cold!" Claire hissed, trying to push the cloth out of her mother's hands.

"Please, honey..."

"No, mommy!" Claire repeated. "No!"

"I know it's cold, honey, but it will make you feel so much better," she told her softly, her heart pounding at this strange behaviour that their daughter rarely expressed. She did, however, notice Claire rubbing at her stomach through the pyjama top, and she frowned, lifting her shirt a little and noticing something that hadn't been there when she changed her shirt half an hour ago. Her eyes widened and the phone was straight back in her hands, dialling the last number called.

"Doctor Dyer? It's Violet Jane again, calling about my daughter, Claire. She's developed a rash on her stomach..."

* * *

Sitting in the emergency room, alone, she had never felt more helpless in her entire life. Doctor Dyer had urged her to go to the hospital immediately so she had wasted no time in pulling Claire's coat over her pyjamas, despite her complaints that it was too hot. She didn't even bother with putting shoes over her socks, she just put her in the car seat and drove straight to the hospital with as much control as she could muster, which she strangely found to be a lot. She had to keep reaching over and pulling Claire's hands from under her pyjama top where she kept trying to itch, but the second she released her hands she was at it again, complaining that it was sore. Once they arrived in the emergency room she had explained the fever, the tiredness and the rash, and the resident paediatrician had taken Claire for an examination, leaving Violet alone to fill in the forms. She was able to fill in the address, her medical history, her own medical history, and Patrick's medical history, her allergies...they hadn't discovered anything yet, so she left that blank.

After that, she'd gone to see her daughter, waiting for the doctor to finish her examination, but she panicked when the doctor announced that she wanted to take Claire for some more tests – which meant taking her out of the emergency room and admitting her into the hospital.

This left Violet sat in another waiting area, her phone constantly using speed-dial to reach Patrick. Every time she got the same message, that his phone was unavailable, and that he couldn't be reached. It hadn't even gone to his voicemail, meaning that he was either out of signal range or that he'd managed to break his cell phone again. If it was the latter, she might just use the broken pieces to cause him as much panic as she'd suffered that morning, if that were possible. An hour later, she still hadn't made any progress.

Now, she wasn't just panicking. She was angry. Filled with a new rage, she slumped in her seat, her head in her hands for a moment as she tried to sort her mind out. Claire had been admitted to the hospital, undergoing tests. She knew what kind of tests they wanted to do, she wasn't stupid – a child with a rash screamed a meningitis panic, and it was taking all of her self control not to start crying at the mere thought of that. She needed someone to sit here with her. She needed Patrick, her husband, Claire's father. It all came back to Patrick. If he'd been reachable in the first place she wouldn't have been sat here helpless. She took out her cell phone again, this time searching for another number from her contacts list, the one she'd been told was in the case of severe emergencies only that she'd only just remembered about. She dialled it, and was shocked when she heard more than just an 'out of service' message.

"_Agent Lisbon,"_

"Oh, hi," Violet stammered, tripping over her words because she hadn't been expecting an answer. "I'm Violet Jane, Patrick's wife. I hope you don't mind me calling but he gave me your number in case of emergencies and I haven't been able to get through to him for the past few hours."

"_No problem," _the woman replied. _"He's been in an out of service area this morning, but he's on his way back with the other agents now so he should be reachable soon."_

"Could you pass on a message for me?" Violet asked. "If I'm honest, speaking to him right now might make me want to kill him."

Agent Lisbon gave a small laugh. "_I feel the same way at the moment, your husband is a hard man to control. What would you like me to tell him?"_

"If you could just let him know that his daughter's in the hospital, maybe shoot him and then send him over? I've been trying to call him pretty much since he left, and he hasn't answered."

"_I can't promise I'll shoot him, but the moment he's back in the building I'll have him straight on his way to you."_

"Thank you," Violet sighed, before the two women ended the call. She'd never met Agent Lisbon before, but she knew that this was the woman who was leading the team that Patrick worked on. She sighed again, pleased to know that Patrick would be on his way soon even though she was insanely angry at him for not answering his phone. Isn't that what cell phones were for?

* * *

"Violet!"

She looked up at the sound of his voice, finding her husband rushing towards her. She stood up to meet him, knowing that if it wasn't for the other people watching her strangely she would have yelled at him right there in the lobby. He put his hands on her arms, breathing heavily from obviously running. "Where the hell have you been?" she asked him.

"Where's Claire?" he asked her, his voice filled with urgency. "What happened, is she ok?"

She shook her head slowly. "They haven't told me anything yet."

"What do you mean they haven't told you anything?" he asked.

"I mean that she's sick, and she has a rash on her stomach, and they've taken her for tests to see what it is" she explained. Then she noticed a woman walk behind him with a clipboard and she jerked away from him. "That's Claire's doctor," she said, going over and standing before her. "How is she?" she asked.

"Mrs Jane, I can assure you that your daughter is in no danger health-wise," she assured her.

Violet's shoulders sagged in relief. "So, she's ok?" Patrick asked, when Violet seemed too stunned to speak.

The doctor consulted her notes. "When your daughter was admitted she had a high fever and a rash, so naturally we ran some tests to exclude some of the more serious illnesses such as meningitis, but thankfully all the tests came back negative," she explained.

"What caused it then?" Violet asked.

"That would be the primary infection caused by the Varicella Zoster Virus," she explained, but two very confused and concerned faces stared back at her. "Mr and Mrs Jane, your daughter just has the chicken pox."

"Chicken pox?" Violet repeated absurdly.

The doctor nodded. "Yes, its a very common illness, especially in children."

Still, Patrick looked confused, though relief was sinking into him. "Claire has the chicken pox?"

"Yes," she repeated. "Her medical history told us that she'd never had the virus before so it could simply mean that coming into contact with another child who has had it recently made her extremely susceptible to it. The virus would have entered the lungs and then it's carried through the blood to the skin where it causes the rash."

"So, she's ok?" Violet checked one final time.

"She's very tired, and she wants her mommy and daddy, but there's no reason why the virus shouldn't run its course and she'll be back to full health within ten to twenty days," she assured them.

"We can take her home now?" Patrick asked.

"Of course," she nodded. "I'll go and get her discharge papers for you. She's in the room on the right through those double doors if you'd like to get her ready to leave."

* * *

Patrick drove home and Violet didn't once complain, even when he forgot himself for a moment and took a corner too sharp. She just wanted to get her daughter home. Claire slept through the car journey, so Patrick took her upstairs and tucked her into her bed when they arrived home. He stayed upstairs with her, and Violet went up a while later to find Patrick sitting at the end of the bed, his feet crossed beneath him as he watched Claire sleeping. She came up beside him, bringing him some tea. He took it form her, drinking some as she settled a plastic cup of water beside Claire's bed for when the girl woke.

"I'm sorry I worried you over chicken pox," she whispered.

"It's ok," he nodded, still watching Claire.

"But that fever was so high, and she wasn't herself...and then the rash? And not being able to reach you?" she shook her head. "I thought she was really sick, Pat."

He reached out to where she was standing, taking hold of her hand in his. It was shameful to think that this was the most physical contact they'd had in a week thanks to his new job. "I'm glad you worried me," he told her, looking up to meet her eyes.

"You are?" she frowned.

He nodded. "What if we passed his off as a cold, let her sleep it off, and then it turned out to be something really serious?" he asked hypothetically.

"It wasn't," she reminded him.

"But it could have been," he realised. It wasn't a nice thought, but parents had to cope with their children becoming seriously ill all the time, and it was something he found himself more aware of now that he had a child of his own – the bravery not just of the children but the parents as well. "I'd rather drop everything and go out of my mind over nothing than underestimate something terrible," he decided. She moved so that she was standing behind him, putting her hands on his shoulders so that she, too, was watching over Claire. "I'm sorry, Violet. I'm sorry I haven't been here."

"You were working," she defended weakly.

"I'm a husband and a father first," he pointed out. "I missed a whole week of my daughter's life. When she's growing up this quickly, I can't afford to do that."

She began to gently knead out the knots of tension on his shoulders, relaxing him with a sigh. "Would you like to know what you've missed?" she offered.

He nodded. "Please."

She moved from behind him, taking his hand. "Come with me."

He looked at their sleeping daughter. "Vi..."

"She has some water by her, she's fast asleep, and if she does wake up we'll hear her when she calls," she reminded him. "Come with me."

This time he followed her and they went downstairs to the kitchen. He sat down at the table as she made herself a tea, then sat down before him, holding her own mug with both hands. "What do you want to know?" she asked him.

"Anything," he sighed. "Just...anything."

"Ok," she said, looking around her for a place to start, her eyes landing on the refrigerator where a scrawled coloured drawing had been pinned with several magnets. "That's a picture she drew on Tuesday afternoon. She says it's of a dog, but it looks more like a cat in my eyes..." Patrick nodded, agreeing with her. "She's moved on from Cinderella and keeps wanting to watch Sleeping Beauty all of the time now. Oh, and she came home from school with a pamphlet about dance lessons for her age group. I kept it because she seemed pretty excited about it, and most of her friends seem to be going to it..."

As Patrick sat there, listening to how much his daughter's life seemed to have changed in the past week, he couldn't help but hate himself a little, until later that night he fell asleep with his daughter wrapped in his arms.


	13. Fear

**Fear**

Patrick knew that she wasn't going to be long in the shower – she never was, but he was glad that she looked cleaner and slightly less jittery when she stepped back into the living room. She looked tiny in his clothes, but as soon as she spotted their daughter, sleeping peacefully in her husband's arms, she relaxed, her shoulders dropping with relief. He didn't make a big deal about it as she had every right to be worried, even though he'd never let any harm come to their daughter. She'd spent a long day worrying about Claire's safety and her own and he knew that wasn't going to disappear for her any time soon.

Violet had taken their two-year-old daughter to an indoor play area, something she frequently did with the other mothers that she was friends with. The mothers would have coffee and talk, and the children would play together. Unfortunately, this day, a man had come into the inside area with a loaded weapon, part of an argument with an ex-wife who's custody arrangement had taken their son away from him. While he'd held up the entire area, police had been called, and Patrick had heard it on the news over the local radio on his way back from a private reading and sped over there, but inside Violet had been able to do nothing. She'd been stuck in her seat while their daughter played unknowingly nearby, hoping that nothing happened to either of them.

"Hey," Patrick whispered as she approached him.

"Is she sleeping?" she asked quietly as she crossed the room to him.

He nodded. "Yeah, she dropped off about five minutes ago."

"Is she ok?" she checked.

"She's perfect," he assured her.

Violet sighed heavily, setting on the couch beside him. She leaned close to her husband, looking down at their child. Claire was comfortable with her father, sprawled out on his chest as if she had set up base camp on his shirt. She ran her fingers delicately over her daughter's hair, the sinking feeling in her stomach returning to remind her that with the slightest turn of events, she or her daughter may not have been here in that moment. There had been shots fired in the play area, two three year olds and three mothers hit, but Violet and Claire were not among the wounded, thankfully. They were able to go home, relax in their living room, and know that they were both safe.

"Violet?"

His voice broke her thoughts, causing her to jump a little at the sudden sound even though his voice was barely more than a whisper. Immediately he reached out, placing one hand over her arm. Her hair skimmed the top of his palm as she leant over slightly; leaving wet trails left over from the shower. She lifted her eyes away from their daughter's head, instead looking at the man who held her.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

He frowned, stroking his thumb over her wrist. "Violet, sweetheart..."

"I'm ok," she whispered, though she clearly wasn't.

He tugged at her. "Here, lie down."

She shook her head. "I don't want to wake Claire."

"You look like you need to lie down before you fall down," he observed. "You obviously want to stay close to Claire but there's no point disturbing her now that she's finally asleep. Lie down with me," he repeated.

She stayed still for a moment but then gave into his pull. The comfort that came from her husbands one-armed embrace was nice, warm, exactly what she needed. They were pressed against each other's sides, his arm falling naturally around her while the other held their daughter to his chest. Moving her head to his shoulder, Violet found that in his position Claire's tiny breath was falling straight onto her neck and she closed her eyes. She was exhausted, but she couldn't sleep yet. Instead, she settled for placing her hand on their daughter's back and listening to her soft breathing. The hand that Patrick had settled around her shoulders moved to hold her upper arm, rubbing a gentle pattern up and down her skin.

"I was really scared today," he whispered after the longest while.

"Me too," she replied.

"I don't know what I'd do if I ever lost you," he admitted. "I...If you or Claire had been the ones who were hurt..."

"We weren't," she reminded him.

His hold tightened, but not to the point where it was uncomfortable. "You and Claire are my life," he breathed. "I can't lose you."

She placed a kiss on his shoulder. "You won't," she whispered. "We could never be apart from you."

Sighing, he settled his head against hers. "I love you, Violet. So much."

"I love you too, Pat. Forever and ever."


	14. This Is The Last Time

**Thank you all for your lovely reviews on this story, I've enjoyed writing it hopefully as much as you've enjoyed reading it. This will be the last instalment of this story, so I've decided to make it a crucial part of the Jane family life, the final evening, hence the title of this chapter. I really wanted to make sure that this chapter tugged at the heartstrings, got the bittersweet tone to it, and perfectly fit what could have happened before Jane left for the television studio that fateful night. Please let me know what you think of this chapter, I was more nervous about this ending than I was about posting the story at the beginning!**

**This Is The Last Time**

Finally, Patrick found his jacket.

He'd spent the past ten minutes searching his bedroom for it, and clearly it had been his wife who had hung it on the banister instead of in the closet in an attempt to stop him from going out tonight. It wasn't very often that these attempts worked, however, unless a pain-of-death rule accompanied it. Patrick had gotten very tidy since he had married Violet, but he supposed that was just the domesticity of being a husband, rather than a scruffy teenager at heart.

Claire was sat cross-legged on the couch, watching him as he walked into the living room, prying her eyes away from the paper she was doodling pictures of puppies on – she was hoping that if she left enough of them lying around the house her parents would buy her a puppy of her own. She frowned when she saw her father slipping on his jacket, and she abandoned the pen in her hand, leaving it on the couch cushion as she padded over to her father, standing next to him.

"Where are you going, daddy?" she asked him.

He looked down, not realising that she'd finished her dinner already. "I need to go and work tonight," he told her.

She frowned harder. "But you went to work today already," she pointed out.

"I know, Claire," he told her, putting his hand on top of her head and stroking her blonde curls. "But I have to do this."

"Can I come?" she asked hopefully.

"No, honey," he told her. He was getting better at saying 'no' to her recently, no longer the pushover of a father she preferred him to be.

"Why not?" she whined.

"Because work is for grown ups," he explained lightly.

"_I _can be a grown up!"

Patrick sighed, looking down at his daughter. Seven days had passed since her first day at proper school, and she already thought she was ridiculously grown up. He smiled at his daughter, she looked a lot like her mother when she stood with a determined scowl on her face. So beautiful. So perfect. "Sorry, sweetheart," he told her. "You need to stay here with Mommy tonight."

She was quiet for a moment, contemplating this. He could see the thought process on her face. She loved her mother. She loved the girls evenings that Violet would give her whenever Patrick had to work overnight. She was always following her mother around, if she wasn't stuck to her father's side, of course. "Will you be back for ice cream soon?" she asked him, having accepted that he was definitely going out.

"I don't think so," he half-lied. He knew for a fact that he definitely wouldn't be back for ice cream. Ice cream time was six-thirty, and at seven o'clock he was appearing on a talk show to talk about Red John and the work he had been doing for the police force.

Claire looked at him as if he suggested that she throw her toys out. "But it's ice cream night!" she protested. "You're _always_ here for ice cream! Mommy _said_ you'd be here!"

Oh yes, that was a favourite phrase at the moment. _Mommy said..._

"I know, honey, I'm sorry."

"Will you be home?" she asked him again.

He gave her a sad smile. "I'm sorry, Claire, but I don't think I will be."

"_Please_?" she asked, with the fluttering eyelashes that had almost convinced him to buy her a pony last weekend.

Patrick sighed, bending down to bring himself to her level. "Claire, I'm going to be back as soon as I can, but I need you to do something _very_ important for me, ok?" Claire nodded. "I need you to stay home and be a good girl for Mommy, can you do that for me?"

She nodded again. "Ok," she said quietly, not happy about the fact that she wasn't getting to go with her father.

"That's my beautiful girl," he said, stroking her hair again. Then he leaned in closer, and whispered loudly. "Do you want to know a secret?"

This perked her up instantly and her eyes glittered up at him. "Yeah!" she replied, mimicking his loud, exaggerated whisper.

"Daddy's going to be on the TV tonight," he revealed.

Her shining eyes widened. "_Really_?"

"Yeah," he confirmed. "If you get Mommy to let you watch the Davis Show, you can see me talking."

But Claire frowned again. "Are you talking about the bad man?" she asked. "Mommy said I can't watch that stuff."

There went the '_mommy said_...' again. Patrick contemplated this for a moment. "Well, tell her that Daddy says you can watch it, just once. Special treat." Her eyes shined brighter, nodding with a smile. "_Just_ this once, though, ok? And you have to go straight to bed afterwards."

"Ok," she nodded.

He had a thought, and smiled at her. "I'll wave to you when I walk on, so watch it carefully."

"I'll watch _specially_ for you," she told him.

"There we go," he smiled, getting back on his feet and looking down at her. "You be a good girl tonight, ok?"

She nodded. "The _best_ good girl _ever_," she promised him.

"I'll come and kiss you goodnight when I get home," he assured her, leaning down to give her a quick kiss before he left.

"Even if I'm already asleep?" she asked him.

"Whether you're awake or asleep, I'll come and kiss you goodnight," he promised her.

She hugged his legs afterwards, promising again that she'd behave herself, and then ran back over to the pens that she'd abandoned on the couch. At a quick glance, he noticed that she was now drawing brown puppies, instead of pink ones, starting to get a more realistic expectation of what colour pets came in. As he turned back, he saw that his wife was now approaching him. She kissed him goodbye, as she always did, but this time she did not look pleased.

"This is the last time, Pat," she told him, her voice quiet and calm as not to alert their daughter, but still with firmness to it.

He sighed, "Violet..."

"No, this is the _last_ time," she repeated. "I don't like this thing you're doing with the serial killer stuff," she shook her head. "It doesn't feel safe."

He kissed her again. "Last time," he confirmed.

"Do you mean that?" she checked, as her husband was never one to give up that easily no matter how many times they'd begun this conversation.

He nodded. "If it means that much to you, this is the last time."

She sighed, and wrapped her arms around him. "Thank you."

"I love you," he whispered to her, holding her just as tightly. "You mean more to me than any of these things I do. You and Claire are my priorities, not the job."

"I love you too," she told him, before pulling back and straightening his tie. "Now, get going, so you can get home sooner," she told him. "I have to get Claire's ice cream ready."

He nodded, pecking her lips one last time before she walked into the kitchen. He called into the living room where Claire was still drawing. "Bye, sweetheart," he called out. "I love you."

"Love you too, daddy," she called back, without looking up from her paper.

And then he left for the studio, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Hours later, he returned from the studio, exhausted. The post was still lying on the table, so he flicked through it before moving it somewhere it wouldn't get mistaken for garbage, and he pushed Claire's tricycle out of the way. He approached his little girls' bedroom, intending on kissing her goodnight whether or not she was asleep. He frowned, however, when he saw a piece of white paper taped to her bedroom down, and he read it aloud.

"_Dear Mister Jane, I do not like to be slandered in the media, especially not by a dirty money-grabbing fraud. If you were a real psychic, instead of a dishonest little worm, you wouldn't need to open the door to see what I've done to your lovely wife and child..."_

END.


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